LIBRARY 

University  of  California 

IRVINE. 


IRobert  Cameron  TRogers 


WiU  o'  the  Wasp.     A  Sea  Yarn  of  the  War 
of  1812 

Old   Dorset :   Chronicles   of    a   New   York 
Country  Side 

The  Wind  in  the  Clearing,  and  Other  Poems 


G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS,  New  York  &  London 


OLD  DORSEI 

CHRONICLES  OF  A  NEW   YORK 
COUNTRY-SIDE 


BY 


ROBERT  CAMERON  ROGERS 

Author  of  "  Will  o'  the  Wasp,"  ""The  Wind" 
in  the  Clearing,"  etc. 


NEW  YORK  AND  LONDON 
G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS 

^897 


COPYRIGHT,  1896 

BY 

G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS 
Entered  at  Stationers'  Hall,  London 


Ube  •fcntcfcerbocher  press,  "Mew  ]Qorh 


To  THE  MEMORY  OF  JOHN  DAVENPORT 

OF  BATH 
IN  THE  STATE  OF  NEW  YORK 


Contents. 

PAGE 

A  DORSET  PRODIGAL 3 

THE  DENISON  VENDUE         ....      29 

MADAM  CALLANDER 53 

THE  EXPIATION  OF  EZRA  SPICER  .  .113 
THE  CASE  OF  PINCKNEY  TOLLIVER  .  .159 
THE  LAST  OF  THE  OLD  CHURCH  .  .  183 


a  Dorset 


a  2>orset 


i. 


ONE  evening,  in  the  early  part  of 
August,  some  thirty  years  ago, 
Major  Cooper  entered  the  bar-room  of 
the  Eagle  Tavern.  This  hostelry,  the 
oldest,  if  not  the  best,  in  Dorset,  was  a 
favorite  halting  spot  in  the  Major's 
nightly  orbit.  Silsbee,  the  proprietor, 
was  his  friend  and  admirer,  and  among 
the  little  assemblage  of  gossips  who 
gathered  at  the  "  Eagle "  with  each 
evening's  advent,  the  Major  was  the  rec 
ognized  oracle  ;  a  distinction  due  to  his 
age, — he  was  over  seventy  ;  his  title — he 
had  served  in  the  army,  and  still  wore 
his  brass  buttons  upon  his  waistcoat ; 
and  the  social  eminence  of  his  family  in 
3 


©15  Dorset 

Dorset.  Beside  the  already  mentioned 
attractions  of  the  Eagle  Tavern,  it  may 
be  stated  that  Silsbee's  Monongahela 
was  the  best  to  be  obtained  in  the 
county. 

It  will  be  readily  seen,  therefore,  that 
the  Major,  whose  tastes  were  autocratic 
and  epicurean,  derived  much  comfort 
from  his  visits  to  the  old-time  tavern, 
whose  architecture,  of  the  order  which 
may  be  styled  early  Southern  New 
York,  recalled  to  the  few  old  residents 
the  bygone  glories  of  Dorset. 

Few  villages  in  Central  or  Southern 
New  York  were  so  picturesque  as  Dor 
set.  It  lay  in  a  veritable  cradle  of  hills, 
its  broad  meadows  stretching  to  where 
the  forest  hid  the  steep  ascent  of  the 
mountain  sides.  Its  little  river  slipped 
clear  and  noisy  over  the  pebbles, 
shaded  on  its  long  pilgrimage  to  the 
distant  Chesapeake  by  overhanging 
branches  of  elm  and  butternut,  bass- 
wood  and  sycamore,  and  many  a  tree 
or  shrub  of  less  degree,  across  whose 
4 


Dorset 


tangle  here  and  there  the  wild  grape 
spread  its  web  of  emerald. 

Dorset  was  famous  for  its  hospitality, 
for  its  pretty  women,  for  its  kitchens,  for 
its  negroes.  Some  of  the  earliest  set 
tlers  were  from  Maryland  and  Virginia, 
and  had  brought  with  them  so  many  of 
their  slaves  that  the  town  was  invested 
with  much  of  that  picturesqueness  and 
local  human  color  so  prevalent  in  the 
villages  south  of  Mason  and  Dixon's 
line.  Aunts  and  uncles  by  courtesy 
of  complexion  and  white  wool  were 
common  in  Dorset.  In  the  early  days 
this  little  town  was  reached  only  by 
the  medium  of  a  yellow  stage,  and 
morning  and  evening  horns  tooted  gaily 
as  six  horses  swung  merrily  along  the 
old  post -road  and  halted  before  the 
Eagle  Tavern.  Such  was  Dorset 
forty  years  ago. 

Now,  time  and  fortune  have  wrought 
their  changes  in  the  once  remote,  old- 
fashioned  village.  Many  of  the  old 
families  have  moved  away,  others  have 
5 


©ID  IDorset 

fallen  upon  evil  days.  White  frame 
houses,  with  Grecian  pillars  upholding 
the  gabled  roof,  under  whose  eves  a 
half-moon  window  gazes  upon  the 
street,  are  no  longer  in  vogue,  for  the 
Queen  Anne  cottage  has  appeared  in 
the  land.  There  are  several  factories 
now  in  Dorset ;  two  railroads  meeting 
there  have  gained  it  notoriety  as  a 
"  Junction,"  and  all  day  long  the  shriek 
of  whistles  and  snorting  and  clangor 
of  engines  call  out  angry  remonstrance 
from  the  indignant  hills. 


II. 


But  we  must  return  to  the  Major. 

Return  is  perhaps  not  the  word,  as 
one  cannot  ramble  among  the  mem 
ories  of  old  Dorset  without  coming 
presently  upon  Major  Cooper.  He  was 
a  repository  of  all  that  had  interested 
the  last  three  generations,  and  though 
he  took  to-day  good-naturedly  and  even 
glanced  with  tolerance  at  to-morrow,  he 
6 


2>orset 


was  plainly  in  the  present  merely  as  a 
delegate  from  the  past. 

This  particular  evening  he  was  full  of 
the  importance  an  interesting  and  still 
fresh  item  of  news  imparts. 

"  Homer,"  said  he,  addressing  Silsbee, 
whose  parents  had  named  him  with  that 
ruthless  classicism  once  so  common  in 
many  rural  districts  in  New  York  State, 
in  the  nomenclature  both  of  individuals 
and  places ;  "  Homer,"  repeated  the 
Major,  "  you  can  reck'lect  Jimmy  Bar 
ton,  can't  you  ?  " 

"  Wai,  I  guess  so,  Major,"  replied 
Silsbee,  "  him  'n'  I  went  to  school  to 
gether." 

"  What,  you  'n'  young  Jimmy  ?  " 
questioned  the  Major. 

"  Wai,  Major,"  laughed  the  other, 
"  he  aint  young  Jimmy  no  longer.  He 
was  every  day  of  twenty  when  he  left, 
an'  it  's  nigh  twenty  years  sence,  an'  I 
guess  we  've  kep'  on  gettin'  old  'bout 
even,  him  'n'  I." 

"  You  're  right,  you  're  right,"  said 
7 


<S>U>  Dorset 

the  Major.  "  I  was  thinking  you  were 
your  father,  I  guess.  Well,  poor  Jim 
has  turned  up." 

"  You  don't  tell  me,"  exclaimed  Ho 
mer.  "  I  want  to  know." 

"  Fact,"  continued  the  Major.  "  He 's 
down  to  his  old  nurse,  Aunt  Susan  Tolli- 
ver's.  Young  Pete,  her  grandson,  let 
the  thing  out,  and  he  says  poor  Jimmy 
looks  like  a  dead  man.  Poor  boy !  So 
long  as  his  folks  lived  here  I  s'pose  he 
would  n't  come  back.  He  was  an  awful 
takin'  boy  an'  they  were  mighty  proud 
of  him.  What  a  voice  he  had  !  Funny, 
but  I  can  reck'lect  the  sound  of  his  laugh 
yet.  Why,  I  'd  rather  hear  Jimmy 
Barton  laugh  than  most  people  sing." 

The  Major  paused  a  moment,  and 
taking  a  silver  tobacco  box  from  his 
waistcoat  pocket,  opened  it,  helped 
himself  to  a  generous  mouthful  and 
chewed  for  a  moment  meditatively. 
Chewing,  in  the  Major's  prime,  had 
been  as  customary  as  smoking  among 
the  people  of  his  acquaintance. 
8 


B  S>orset  prodigal 


During  this  brief  interlude  several 
new-comers,  who  had  been  listening 
afar  off,  drew  near.  The  tavern-keeper 
turned  to  one  of  them,  a  little,  weaz 
ened-faced  man,  upon  whose  counte 
nance,  colored  by  indefatigable  tippling, 
an  expression  of  great  curiosity  was 
visible  :  "  You  remember  Jim  Barton, 
don't  ye,  Ezry  ?  " 

"  Wai,  I  guess  I  kin,"  replied  Ezra, 
whose  name  was  Spicer.  "  I  guess  I 
kin;  why  him  V  me  was " 

Here  the  Major,  with  a  slight  frown 
in  the  direction  of  the  adventurous 
Spicer,  resumed  the  reins  of  the  con 
versation.  Nothing  was  further  from 
the  worthy  gentleman's  intention  than 
to  permit  another  to  discourse  upon  the 
theme  he  himself  had  inaugurated. 

"  You  remember  Jim  Barton,  Seely, 
and  you  too,  Balcom,"  he  said,  address 
ing  the  remainder  of  the  group.  "  Well, 
he  's  come  back  at  last,  come  back  to 
die,  I  guess — down  to  his  old  nurse, 
Susan  Tolliver's."  After  a  moment's 


©ID  Dorset 

melancholy  satisfaction  in  the  exclama 
tions  of  surprise  and  commiseration  fol 
lowing  this  disclosure,  the  Major  went 
on  :  "  I  was  talkin'  about  his  laugh — 
clear  as  a  bell — you  reck'lect  him  laugh- 
in'  out  in  meetin'  at  Colonel  Denison's 
tipsy  coachman,  Black  Tony  ?  An'  how 
the  old  judge  walked  him  out  for  it  ? 
Well,  he  was  a  limb,  was  Jimmy,  always 
up  to  something.  He  could  imitate  any 
livin'  animal  or  bird.  Why,  he  used  to 
put  his  head  out  of  the  window,  about 
nine  at  night,  when  the  town  was  about 
ready  to  go  to  sleep,  an*  crow,  an",  my 
word  for  it,  they  'd  be  twenty-five  old 
roosters  singing  out  revellee  in  five  min 
utes.  Then  Jim,  he  'd  laugh  an'  go  to 
bed.  Why,  you  all  rek'lect  that  trick, 
of  course." 

The  Major  paused  a  moment,  then 
resumed  in  a  little  different  voice  : 

"  Well,  he  went  to  college,  an'  he  got 

wild  there,   I  guess.     When  he  came 

home  he  quarrelled  with  the  Judge  an' 

got  turned   off.     But  you  know  it  all 

10 


a  Dorset  prodigal 

just  as  well  as  I  do.  Mrs.  Barton  died 
first,  then  the  family  lost  their  money, 
then  they  went  West.  The  poor  old 
Judge  's  buried  in  Ohio  somewhere. 
The  girls  are  married,  the  old  house  is 
torn  down,  an'  here  's  poor  Jim  come 
back  at  the  last,  to  die  at  an  old  nigger 
woman's.  There  's  a  history  for  you. 
Here  's  old  Susan  now,"  exclaimed  the 
Major,  "  an'  you  can  get  the  news  first 
hand." 

III. 

As  he  ceased  speaking  a  negress  of 
almost  any  age  between  sixty  and 
eighty  entered  the  room.  She  was 
coal-black  with  white  hair,  and  was  one 
of  the  few  negroes  in  Dorset  who  re 
membered  the  slave  days  in  the  North. 
She  walked  up  to  the  counter  and  placed 
a  tin  pail  upon  it. 

"  Mist'  Silsbee,"  she  said,  "  I  want 
'bout  a  quahtah  of  dat  pail  o'  wisky.  I 
want  you'  porest ;  hit  's  fo'  extu'nal 


©ID  Dorset 

app'cation.  Good  evenin',  Majah,"  she 
added  with  a  dignified  courtesy  to  that 
gentleman. 

"  Good  evening,  Susan,"  said  he.  "  I 
am  told  that  my  old  friend,  Judge  Bar 
ton's  son  is  at  your  house." 

The  old  woman's  face  assumed  a 
look  of  mingled  grief  and  importance. 
She  saw  herself  the  centre  of  a  curious 
throng,  and  her  vanity  was  not  a  little 
gratified.  At  the  same  time  it  was  evi 
dent  that  she  felt  keenly  the  melancholy 
occurrence  which  had  given  her  this 
present  prominence.  She  addressed 
herself  to  the  Major,  as  he  represented 
to  her  mind  the  only  element  in  the 
little  group  to  be  deferred  to. 

"  Oh,  fo'  de  Lord's  sake,  yes,  Majah," 
she  exclaimed,  lifting  her  hands  and 
letting  them  fall  with  the  gesture  of 
one  who  scarcely  hopes  to  recover  from 
some  great  and  recent  shock — "  Mast' 
Jim  's  come  back,  you  see" — after  a 
short  pause,  during  which  the  Major 
had  asked  for  the  particulars  of  the 

12 


21  Dorset 


event,  "  My  gal  Flora's  boy,  he  sez  to 
me  to-day,  sez  he,  '  Gramma/  sez  he,  '  I 
seen  a  tramp  'sleep  in  de  ole  Barton  lot, 
down  in  de  cem'tery,'  sez  he.  '  Wai/  sez 
I, '  I  can't  help  dat/  sez  I ;  'you  run  'long 
now ;  I  aint  got  no  time  fo'  you.'  Wai, 
dis  evenin'/' — the  old  woman  paused  a 
moment  and  permitted  her  hearers'  in 
terest  to  intensify — "  dis  evenin',  'bout 
six,  Pete,  dat 's  Flora's  boy,  cum  runnin' 
to  me  an'  sez,  '  Gramma,  dat  tramp  I 
seen  dis  maw'n'  jist  gone  inter  de  ketch- 
in.'  I  went  to  the  do'  an'  open  it,  an' 
sure  'nough  dere  he  stan',  eating  de  suc 
cotash  he  'd  tuk  off  de  stove  like  he  was 
stahvin.  I  was  jess  'bout  to  call  out 
wen  he  turn  an'  see  me,  an'  kin*  o' 
laugh  an'  say,  'you  mak'  de  succotash 
de  same  old  way,  Aunty  Sue  ! '  Lord,  I 
did  'n'  know  yet  who  de  man  was,  an' 
den  he  walked  towahd  me  and  sez  he, 
'Aunt  Susan,  doan  you  know  me?' — 
an'  den  I  see  hit  was  Mast'  Jim. 

"  But,  oh  Lord !  Majah,"  cried  the  old 
woman,  breaking  into  as  ob,  "  hit  wa'  n't 
13 


©l£>  Dorset 

de  same  ole  han'some  Mast'  Jim  what 
we  all  knowed.  He  was  pore,  an'  white, 
an'  his  ha'r  was  half  gray,  an'  his  clo's 
like  a  sure  'nough  tramp's.  An'  he 
look  like  de  wind  blow  him  away.  I 
sat  down  an'  fah'ly  cried.  '  Oh,  Mast' 
Jim,'  sez  I,  'wharyou  come  from,  whar 
you  been?  I 's  mighty  glad  to  see  you, 
I  is,  but  you  look  so  pore  an*  sick,  fo' 
de  Lord's  sake,  Mast'  Jimmy ! '  Den  he 
come  clost  up  to  me,  an'  sez  he :  '  Aunty, 
I  's  from  most  ev'rywhar'  an'  I  'se  ben 
goin'  most  anywhar  fo'  de  las  fifteen 
yeahs,'  sez  he,  '  an'  I  got  kind  o'  tiahed 
an'  cum  back  to  see  you  'n'  old  Dorset 
agin  ;  an'  I  'm  precious  glad  to  fine  you 
'live,  too,  you  deah  ole  niggah,'  sez  he ; 
an'  den  he  stoop  an'  kiss  me.  '  You  's 
de  fust  woman  I  've  kissed  in  a  long 
time,  Aunty,'  sez  he,  'an'  I  guess  you  's 
like  to  be  de  last  I  evah  will  kiss ; '  an' 
den  he  fah'ly  break  down  an'  cry,  an' 
laugh,  an'  cough,  'till  he  most  die  o' 
chokin'." 

Aunt  Susan  stopped  a  few  moments 


B  2>oreet 


and  wept  quietly  into  a  corner  of  her 
old  plaid  shawl.  The  group  of  listeners 
were  silent.  Silsbee  concealed  two 
misty  eyes  by  appearing  to  be  busy  with 
something  under  the  counter.  The 
tears  were  coursing  freely  down  the 
Major's  withered  face;  Balcom  and 
Seely  were  gazing  with  dimmed  vision 
and  ill-assumed  indifference  at  the  floor, 
while  old  Ezra  Spicer  was  sobbing 
audibly. 

No  one  seemed  to  care  to  speak  first, 
and  presently  the  old  negress  continued : 
"  I  got  him  supper  an'  put  him  to  bed, 
an'  he  kin'  o'  chippered  up  a  little  an' 
ask  'bout  all  his  ole  frens.  I  say,  '  you 
people  's  gone  West,  Mast'  Jim,'  and  he 
say  he  know  it.  And  den  he  say  slowly : 
'  Not  all,  dey  is  n't  Aunty  ;  I  ben  to  de 
cem'tery  to-day,'  sez  he.  Den  he  stop. 
In  a  minute  he  say  an'  kin  o'  choke 
up :  '  Mother  tole  me  she  gwine  to  wait 
fo'  me  heah,'  sez  he,  '  an'  she  's  kep'  her 
word,'  sez  he.  After  a  while  he  ask 
whar  's  his  cousin  John  Denison,  an'  I 
15 


©ID  Dorset 

say,  killed  in  de  wah ;  an*  he  say,  he  was 
in  de  wah  too.  An'  he  say  '  whar  's 
'Lizabeth  Taylor ;'  an'  I  sez,  'why  Mast' 
Jim,'  sez  I,  '  she  ben  Missus  dis  fifteen 
yeah.'  '  Missus  who  ?  '  sez  he.  Why, 
'  Mis'  Thorne  Cooper,'  sez  I ;  an'  den 
he  say  to  hisself  like,  'den  hit  must  'a 
ben  her  little  girl  I  see  dis  maw'n.' 
Aftah  dat  he  keep  still  a  minute  and 
den  he  say,  *  Aunt  Susan  kin  you  git 
me  something  fo*  to  rub  my  chest  wiv  ? 
I  aint  got  no  money,'  sez  he, '  but  yere  's 
my  ole  silvah  watch  I  done  carry  fo' 
thirty  yeah,'  sez  he.  But  Susan  aint 
askin'  no  money  to  look  out  fo'  old 
Mis'  Barton's  chil'en,  so  bimeby  he 
laugh  an*  say,  '  Wai  Aunty,'  sez  he, 
'  when  I  get  froo  wiv  dis  yere,  you  give 
it  to  Pete,'  sez  he,  'an'  tell  him  look  out 
he  doan  waste  de  time  like  I  did,'  says 
he.  And  bimeby  he  say  he  was  sleepy 
an'  tu'n  on  his  side,  an'  I  come  fo'  dis 
yeah  wisky." 

The  old  woman  took  the  pail  off  the 
counter,  when  she  had   ended   her  re- 

16 


B  Dorset  prodigal 

cital,  and  turned  to  the  door,  saying: 
"  Charge  dis  yere  to  me,  Mist'  Silsbee." 

"  No,  no,  no,  Silsbee,"  exclaimed  the 
Major ;  "  no,  no,  no,  put  that  to  me. 
That  's  all  right,  Susan,  an'  you  tell 
Jimmy  I  '11  be  in  to  see  him  in  the 
morning." 

"And  you  tell  Jimmy  fer  me,  Mis' 
Tolliver,"  added  old  Spicer,  following 
the  negress  to  the  door,  "  that  I  '11  be 
round  to-morrow,  too,  an'  if  he  wants 
anything  I  '11 — I  '11  borrow  it  fer  him." 
Ezra  had  ended  with  an  anti-climax,  for 
the  poor  old  toper,  soft-hearted  as  a 
woman,  had  a  credit  founded  upon 
sand. 

The  others  had  adjourned  to  the  bar, 
and  were  about  to  indulge  solemnly  in 
a  round  of  Monongahela.  Ezra  watched 
them  from  the  door.  No  one  noticed 
him  apparently  nor  invited  him  to  be  a  >• 
party  to  the  libations,  and  his  last  nickel 
had  left  his  society  earlier  in  the  even 
ing.  But  the  old  man  hardly  felt  the 
oversight  or  regretted  his  impecuniosity. 
17 


©ID  Dorset 

His  face  wore  a  meditative  look,  and  his 
eyes,  whose  vision  was  usually  limited 
by  the  whiskey  bottle,  seemed  to  be 
gazing  far  beyond  that  amber-colored 
fetich,  beyond  its  worshippers,  beyond 
the  open  window,  the  garden,  the 
meadow,  the  river  and  the  hills,  away 
into  the  past. 

IV. 

Some  time  after,  when  the  Major 
and  his  satellites  had  passed  the  tav 
ern  door  to  suffer  eclipse  in  the  dark 
ness  beyond,  Silsbee,  coming  to  the 
counter  which  opened  into  the  office, 
noticed  old  Ezra  Spicer  asleep  in  his 
customary  chair,  the  marks  of  emotion 
staining  his  weazened  cheeks.  It  was 
growing  late  and  Homer  was  sleepy. 

"  Wai,  Ezry,"  he  called,  "  better  wake 
up — fust  you  know  ole  Mis'  Spicer  '1  be 
'long  lookin*  fer  ye  with  a  club." 

Ezra  roused  himself.  "Crotch  all 
hemlock,"  he  said  with  a  stretch  and 

18 


a  Dorset  iproDfgal 

a  yawn  combined,  "  ef  I  haint  be'n 
dreamin.'  Dremp  I  was  fishin',  at  the 
ole  fishin'  hole  on  Colonel  Denison's 
bank  of  the  river — you  'n'  Jimmy  Bar 
ton  was  along,  jess  as  yer  used  ter  be. 
Kin  you  remember  when  you  'n'  Jim 
snared  that  dern  big  mullett  that 
would  n't  bite  at  no  bait  an'  how  Jim 
laughed  ?  " 

"Wai',  I  do,"  replied  Homer  with  a 
grin. 

"  Why,  of  course  ye  do,"  continued 
Ezra.  "  I  was  goin'  to  call  it  to  yer 
mind  to-night  when  the  Major  was 
speakin'  of  Jim's  laugh,  but  the  ole 
Major  's  so  dern  uppity  when  he  gets 
talkin' — wants  to  do  it  all.  I  guess  we 
kin  reck'lect  poor  Jimmy's  ways  jess 
'bout  as  well  as  he  kin — ef  we  aint  so 
high-toned." 

Homer  laughed.  "  Why,  of  course, 
we  kin.  He  used  to  train  with  us  most 
the  time.  Guess  the  ole  Jedge  did  n't 
like  it  much,  nuther,  but  Jim  wa'  n't  no 
'ristocrat.  Ye  aint  goin'  be  ye,  Ezry  ?  " 
19 


Old  5>Or3Ct 

he  added,  gazing  with  a  softening  look 
at  the  old  man,  who  was  walking  slowly 
towards  the  door ;  "  ye  have  n't  had  no 
night-cap  yit,"  and  he  put  the  amber 
bottle  upon  the  counter  again  and  pro 
duced  a  minature  tumbler. 

Ezra  paused  spell-bound,  but  timid : 
"  I  haint  no  cash,  Homer,"  he  began. 

"  Who  said  ye  had  ?  Come  here  'n' 
have  a  drink,"  said  the  other  gruffly. 
The  old  tippler  came  up  to  the  counter 
and  took  his  whiskey,  shaking  his  head, 
rubbing  his  chest,  and  coughing  per 
functorily  afterwards.  Homer  filled  the 
glass  again,  and  again  the  liquor  disap 
peared  with  similar  concomitant  phe 
nomena.  When  Ezra  set  his  glass  down 
the  second  time  he  was  evidently  much 
invigorated.  "  That  fixes  me,"  said  he. 
"  Homer,  I  'm  yours  truly.  I  wish  I 
could  pay  ye." 

"  I  don't  want  no  pay,"  growled  the 
other ;  "  but  don't  ye  forgit  to  drop  in 
to-morrow  mornin'  an'  we  '11  go  see  how 
Jim  's  a-comin'  on." 

20 


B  Dorset 


V. 


When  the  old  negress  reached  her 
cottage  she  found  the  wanderer  awake, 
and  sitting  upright  on  the  bed,  talking 
with  animation  to  her  grandson  Peter, 
who  was  perched  at  the  foot  of  the 
couch. 

James  Barton  must  at  one  time  have 
been  a  handsome  man,  but  now  his 
form  was  bent  and  spare  ;  his  hair  was 
mottled  with  gray,  and  his  face  thin  and 
pinched,  with  the  bright  red  spot  of  the 
consumptive  upon  either  cheek.  His 
eyes  were  blue  and  full  of  a  preter 
natural  glimmer.  It  was  easy  to  see 
that  his  mind  was  half-wandering  as  he 
talked  rapidly  with  the  little  darkey, 
and  the  old  woman  attempted  to  send 
the  boy  away,  fearful  of  the  effect  of 
too  much  excitement  upon  the  sick 
man.  But  Barton  exclaimed  queru 
lously,  and  with  all  an  invalid's  peevish 
ness,  against  her  wish.  He  wanted  to 
hear  about  the  woods,  and  the  river, 

21 


Dorset 


and  whether  the  fishing  was  good.  And 
he  rattled  on,  asking  the  lad  a  hun 
dred  questions,  speaking  of  groves  long 
fallen  under  the  axe,  of  fishing-holes 
and  swimming-pools  for  years  disused 
and  forgotten.  Occasionally  he  would 
seem  to  be  a  boy  again  himself,  and  call 
the  little  negro,  "  Thome,"  or  "  Jack," 
or  "  Homer,"  or  other  names  of  his 
boyhood  friends. 

After  a  while,  however,  he  seemed  to 
grow  weary  and  turned  silently  upon 
his  side.  The  little  boy  slipped  from 
his  place  and  stole  out  of  the  room,  and 
the  old  negress  again  entered.  She 
offered  to  rub  his  throat  and  chest  with 
the  whiskey,  but  he  shook  his  head  ;  and 
presently  thinking  him  asleep  she  sat 
down  quietly  in  the  outer  room.  In  a 
few  moments  she  heard  the  sick  man 
call  her.  She  came  close  to  the  bed. 

"  Sit  by  me,  Aunty,  won't  you  ?  "  he 
said,  "like  you  used  to  when  I  was 
afraid  of  the  dark." 

"  Lord  bless  you,  chile,  'cose  I  '11  set 


Dorset 


by  ye."  She  brought  an  old  easy  chair, 
the  gift,  many  years  before  of,  Mrs. 
Barton.  "  I  '11  set  yere,  doan  you  fret, 
honey."  The  man  laid  his  hot  palm 
upon  the  hard  black  hand  of  his  old 
nurse.  "  God  bless  you,  Aunt  Susan," 
said  he,  "  I  '11  be  soon  asleep." 

Some  hours  passed. 

The  candle,  burned  out,  was  smoul 
dering  in  its  socket,  the  old  woman 
slept  noisily  in  her  chair,  and  the  man 
upon  the  bed  was  also  sleeping.  Sud 
denly  he  wakened  with  a  start,  and  for 
a  moment  stared  in  a  dazed  manner 
about  him.  Then  recollecting  himself, 
he  turned  towards  his  old  nurse.  A 
smile  stole  over  his  face  as  he  noticed 
her  deep  slumber,  and  he  half  raised 
himself  upon  his  pillow.  The  window 
was  open,  and  the  breeze  had  filled  the 
room  with  fragrance  from  a  bush  of 
late  roses.  The  night  was  already  lift 
ing,  and  he  could  see  far  down  the 
road,  past  the  walls  of  gardens  over 
which  peered  the  sunflowers  with  their 
23 


©ID  Dorset 

dusky  aureoled  faces,  just  as  years  be 
fore,  how  many  years  he  was  too  weak 
to  care  to  reckon,  they  had  peered  at 
him,  a  little  white-haired  boy,  slipping 
away  with  his  fish-pole  to  the  river. 
He  could  see  the  fringe  of  trees  that 
marked  the  river's  course,  and  on  be 
yond  them  the  silent,  wooded  hill.  He 
could  see  no  new  buildings — the  clatter 
of  the  factories  had  not  yet  begun. 
The  railroad  was  silent — new  faces  were 
not  yet  upon  the  street.  Only  his  old 
friends  were  present.  The  great  south 
hill,  the  trees  beside  the  river,  the  sun 
flowers  along  the  post-road,  and  by  his 
side,  sleeping  heavily  in  her  chair,  his 
old  black  nurse. 

VI. 

Perhaps  it  was  an  hour  later,  when 
a  light,  boyish  laugh  sounded  through 
the  room.  Stirring  at  the  sound,  the 
aged  negress  half  awakening,  muttered 
indistinctly,  and  at  once  resumed  her 
sleep. 

24 


B  Dorset  prodigal 


She  was  dreaming  confusedly  of  the 
past,  and  the  laughter  coming  into  her 
dream  seemed  a  part  of  it.  She  was 
dreaming  of  an  old-fashioned,  white- 
pillared  house  surrounded  by  a  garden 
of  dahlias,  hollyhocks,  and  sunflowers. 
Down  the  garden  paths  she  seemed  pur 
suing  a  boy  with  yellow  hair,  who  con 
tinually  laughed  at  and  eluded  her. 
Suddenly  the  boy  was  a  youth,  and  the 
youth  a  man,  and  then,  as  the  figure 
drifted  away  and  was  lost  amid  a  mist 
of  vague,  uncertain  visions,  once  more 
the  face  of  the  boy  appeared,  faintly 
upon  the  background  of  her  dream. 

When  the  sun,  through  an  eastern 
window,  flooded  the  room,  the  old 
woman  awoke. 

She  leaned  forward  to  look  at  the 
man  upon  the  bed.  His  lips  were  half 
open,  and  the  trace  of  a  smile  lingered 
upon  his  emaciated  face.  She  took  one 
of  his  hands,  and,  with  a  cry,  rose  to 
her  feet,  for  the  hand  was  the  hand  of 
the  dead. 

25 


<S>1£>  Dorset 


"  I  heahd  him  laugh  in  his  sleep," 
she  said,  that  day,  to  Major  Cooper  as 
he  stood  beside  the  body  of  his  old 
friend's  son ;  "  I  heahd  him  laugh  like 
he  was  a  boy  agin.  'Foh  de  Lord  ! — 
like  he  was  a  boy  agin." 


H)eni0on  IDentwe. 


IDenison 


ONE  sunny  September  afternoon, 
it  was  many  years  ago,  in  the 
fifties,  a  number  of  people  were  assem 
bled  in  the  front  yard  of  the  Denison 
mansion,  hearkening,  and  occasionally 
yielding,  to  the  humorous  eloquence 
of  Lemuel  Edwards,  the  village  auc 
tioneer,  as  he  held  forth  concerning 
the  various  chattels  to  be  acquired  at 
prodigious  bargains  from  the  Denison 
vendue. 

The  broad  front  door  of  the  old  man 
sion  stood  open,  and,  in  the  uncarpeted 
hall  beyond,  chairs,  and  tables  were 
huddled  uncomfortably  together,  seem 
ingly  conscious  of  an  impending  crisis, 
and  towering  above  these  an  aged  ma- 
29 


Dorset 


hogany  clock,  unwound  for  many  days, 
gazed  in  gloomy  silence  at  "  Time's  re 
venges,"  disdaining  to  chronicle  these 
supreme  hours  of  disgrace. 

In  a  corner,  upon  a  sideboard,  where 
of  old  stood  the  silver  and  glass  of 
prosperity,  a  few  nicked  tea-cups  and 
four  or  five  long-stemmed  wine-glasses, 
"  strayed  revellers,"  feminine  and  mas 
culine,  from  a  remote  and  happy  period, 
cast  their  melancholy  reflections  into 
the  burnished  surface  upon  which  they 
stood.  A  bedstead  or  two,  a  few  books 
and  prints,  several  carpets  and  mat 
tresses,  and  a  number  of  minor  articles 
of  household  utility,  littering  the  wide 
porch,  completed  the  tale  of  salvage 
from  that  wreck  which  once  was  known 
as  the  Denison  estate. 

For  Mrs.  Colonel  Denison,  the  relict 
of  one  of  Dorset's  earliest  and  most  in 
fluential  citizens,  had  finally  followed 
her  husband  and  children  to  the  grave, 
leaving  no  heirs,  but  many  creditors, 
and  no  assets  but  the  few  articles  of 
30 


Denison  IDen&ue 


personal  property  contained  within  the 
four  walls  of  the  old  house. 

In  the  white-pillared  porch  where  of 
old  Colonel  Denison  had  told  his  sto 
ries,  aired  his  politics  and  hobnobbed 
merrily  with  his  cronies,  the  peremptory 
ring  of  the  auctioneer's  hammer  sounded 
dismally,  and  the  coarse-grained  plati 
tudes  of  Lemuel  Edwards  mocked  the 
echoes  of  old-time  wit  and  wisdom. 

By  four  o'clock  the  "  Vandoo  "  as  the 
term  was  popularly  pronounced  among 
the  hills  of  southern  New  York,  was  al 
most  ended,  and  as  yet  but  few  if  any 
of  the  crowd  had  left  the  sale.  It  was 
apparent  that  some  crowning  attraction 
was  in  store  for  them.  The  auctioneer 
was  working  leisurely,  with  a  fund  of 
humor  still  unexhausted. 

"  Here  's  an  ice-pitcher,  a  real  plated 
silver  ice-pitcher — aint  no  spout  left  to 
it,  but  it 's  a  nice  pitcher, — you  take  me, 
gents  ?  Come,  Ezry,  how  much  do  you 
offer  ?  You  're  great  on  ice-water,  you 
be." 

31 


©U>  Dorset 

A  laugh  from  the  assemblage  greeted 
this  sally. 

"  S'prised  ye  should  know  one,  when 
ye  see  it,  Lemuel,"  retorted  the  indi 
vidual  addressed  as  Ezry,  (whose  last 
name  was  Spicer,)  and  again  the  crowd 
indulged  in  its  mirth. 

Ezra  Spicer  was  one  of  Dorset's  char 
acters.  He  was  a  little,  withered,  stoop- 
shouldered  man  of  sixty,  whose  face, 
ornamented  by  a  sandy-gray  chin  whis 
ker,  bore  the  imprint  of  liberal  princi 
ples  regarding  the  use  of  ardent  spirits. 
He  had  at  one  time  occupied  a  position 
which  uncompromising  frankness  might 
style  that  of  village  drunkard,  but  the 
advance  of  civilization  had  brought 
competition  for  this  post  in  Dorset,  and 
Ezra  had  profited  by  the  levelling  spirit 
of  the  age. 

"Say,  Lem,"  added  Ezra,  having 
permitted  his  friends  to  appreciate  his 
retort.  "  Aint  it  abaout  time  to  come 
down  to  serious  bizness?  " 

"  Come,  Lem,"  from  another  of  the 
32 


Cbc  Dentdon  IDenbue 


crowd,  "  no  one  wants  that  old  trash, 
git  down  to  work." 

"  Hear,  hear,"  from  a  number  of 
voices.  The  auctioneer  yielding 
promptly  to  the  popular  will,  thumped 
loudly  upon  the  box  before  him,  which 
served  as  a  desk,  and  began  : 

"  Fellow-citizens — " 

"This  aint  'lection  time,"  interposed 
Spicer. 

"  Fellow-citizens,"  repeated  Edwards, 
heedless  of  the  interruption,  "  when 
Mrs.  Colonel  Denison  departed  this  life 
she  left  among  her  personal  effects  an* 
chattels  one  keg  of  the  famous  brandy 
brought  into  this  here  county  by  ole 
Guv'nor  Craig  an'  by  him  presented  to 
Colonel  John  Denison,  our  lamented 
townsman." 

"  Speak  for  yourself  when  you  say 
'  lamented,'  Lemuel  Edwards." 

The  auctioneer  turned  in  surprise  to 
wards  the  speaker, — an  elderly  woman, 
though  her  hair  was  barely  touched 
with  gray,  her  heavy,  high  arching  eye- 

33 


©10  Dorset 

brows  black,  and  her  eyes  clear  and 
steady.  She  was  dressed  in  shabby 
mourning,  an  umbrella  gripped  tightly 
in  one  hand,  in  the  other  a  rusty  leath 
ern  bag. 

Lemuel  was  justly  indignant  at  the 
interruption,  for  besides  the  displeasure 
he  felt  at  being  checked  whilst  under 
full  headway,  he  resented  the  slur  upon 
the  memory  of  a  man  to  whom  for 
many  acts  of  kindness  both  he  and  al 
most  half  of  Dorset  were  debtors. 

"  I  s'pose  ye  come  in  all  the  way  from 
Rileyville  jest  to  say  that,  did  n't  ye, 
Mis'  Stanbro,"  he  exclaimed  with  much 
acerbity,  "jest  because  ye  did  n't  like 
him,  had  an  ole  grudge  mebbe,  ye  have 
come  in  now  to  git  even  with  a  man 
dead  these  ten  years — a  man  me  nor 
half  Dorset  can't  never  pay  all  we 
owe  to  him." 

"Nor  I  can't  neither,"  said  the  old 
woman  calmly. 

"  I  guess  ye  come  jest  to  be  spite 
ful,"  continued  the  auctioneer  wrath- 

34 


IDentson  IDenOue 


fully.  "  I  see  yer  bosses  hitched  out 
yonder  this  three  hours,  but  I  haint 
seen  ye  a  buyin'  nothin'  yet." 

"  Not  yet  you  haint,"  replied  Mrs. 
Stanbro. 

"So  I  cal'clate  its  jest  ol'-time 
spite  what  "s  brought  ye  here,  unless 
it 's  true  what  I  hear  folks  say  about 
the  widow  Stanbro — gettin'  a  little 
crazy — an'  ef  that  's  the  case,  why  the 
county-house  '11  kind  o'  have  to  look 
after  ye." 

"  Here,  that 's  enough,  Lemuel,"  said 
Major  Cooper,  a  slight,  gray-haired, 
ruddy-nosed  gentleman,  whose  blue 
coat  and  military  buttons  hinted  broadly 
at  his  one-time  profession — "  that 's 
enough — you  leave  Mrs.  Stanbro  alone 
— recollect  she 's  a  lady — go  on  with 
what  you  've  got  to  say,  but  let  's  get 
to  the  point." 

"  Hear,  hear,  let  's  get  to  the  pint," 

ejaculated  Ezra  Spicer,  who  frequently 

played  the  part  of  an  humble  corollary 

to  the   Major.     "  No   she  aint    crazy, 

35 


Old  IDorsct 

neither,  Balcom,"  he  added  emphati 
cally,  to  the  man  at  his  right.  "  An* 
she 's  ben  mighty  good  to  Mis'  Spicer 
at  odd  spells,  too." 

Here  Edwards  having  swallowed 
his  indignation  in  deference  to  Major 
Cooper  resumed  his  address.  "  This 
here  keg — it 's  more  like  a  bar'l — must 
hold  twenty  gallon — was  left  in  the 
cellar  by  ole  Mis'  Denison — mebbe  she 
forgot  it,  mebbe  she  done  it  intentional 
— I  guess  if  the  old  Colonel  had  ben 
the  survivor  ye  would  n't  ha'  found 
much  except  keg." 

"  I  guess  you  would  n't,"  said  the 
widow  Stanbro  dryly. 

Lemuel  paused  again  as  if  to  renew 
the  battle,  but  apparently  thought 
better  of  it.  "  Now,"  he  continued, 
"  I  'm  goin'  to  start  the  bids — remember 
it 's  fine  old  Otard  DuPuy,  (the  pro 
nunciation  of  the  auctioneer  was  in 
accordance  with  the  principles  of  com 
mon  school  English  as  taught  in  Pul- 
teney  County,)  an'  the  best  liquor  in 
36 


Cbe  Denteon 


the  Southern  Tier.  What  am  I  offered, 
gentlemen  ?  " 

"  I  '11  give  ye  ten  cents  for  the  keg, 
for  firewood,"  said  the  widow  contempt 
uously. 

"  Ten  cents.  Ten  cents.  I  'm  offered 
ten  cents,"  began  Edwards,  holding 
himself  under  with  an  effort. 

"  Twenty-five,"  said  Ezra  Spicer,  de 
lighted  that  the  bidding  had  started 
within  the  latitude  of  his  limited 
finances. 

"  Five  dollars,"  said  the  Major,  lift 
ing  the  contention  into  an  atmosphere, 
as  regarded  Spicer,  hopelessly  remote 
and  rarified.  The  Major  was  aware 
that  Homer  Silsbee,  the  proprietor  of 
the  Eagle  Tavern,  was  prepared  to  go 
to  considerable  expense  in  order  to  ob 
tain  the  coveted  cognac,  whose  exist 
ence  recently  discovered  was  already 
well  known  about  the  village,  and  so 
was  desirous  of  bringing  on  the  engage 
ment  at  once. 

"  Five  dollars  !"  sighed  the  old  tip- 
37 


5>oreet 


pier  to  his  neighbor.  "  Wai'  I  guess  I 
drop  out  —  but  I  had  one  clip  at  it,  an' 
that  's  more  'n  I  looked  fer." 

"  Yes,  owin'  to  yer  crazy  friend." 

"  Tell  ye  she  aint  crazy,"  retorted 
Ezra  hotly. 

"  Six  dollars,"  said  Silsbee. 

"  Seven,"  returned  the  Major. 

"  Eight,"  from  Silsbee. 

"  Nine,"  said  the  Major. 

"  Ten,"  said  the  tavern-keeper.  No 
one  present  save  the  four  already  men 
tioned  had  taken  part  in  the  bidding, 
and  Spicer  and  the  widow  Stanbro 
seemed  disposed  to  become  mere  spec 
tators,  permitting  the  Major  and  his 
antagonist  to  bear  the  burden  of  the 
contest.  It  was  generally  understood 
among  the  men  present  that  should 
Silsbee  prove  victorious  the  famous 
liquor  would  not  be  relegated  to  the 
cellar  of  the  "  Eagle  "  untasted  by  the 
friends  of  its  possessor.  Accordingly 
considerable  interest  was  evinced  as  the 
Major  called  out,  "  eleven,"  to  which 
38 


Denfson  WenDue 


Silsbee  promptly  returned  "twelve.*' 
Each  of  them  now,  in  his  turn,  lifted 
the  bidding  until  Silsbee,  amid  much 
excitement,  had  cried,  "  Thirty." 

There  was  a  pause.  "  Thirty,  thir 
ty,  thirty,"  vociferated  the  auctioneer. 
I  'm  offered  thirty  dollars  for  the  best 
stuff  in  seven  counties;  old  cognac  that 
kin  recollect  Gineral  Lafayette.  Major, 
you  've  drunk  it  a  hundred  times  in  the 
Colonel's  dinin'-room;  you  wont  let  it  go 
fer  thirty  dollars — thirty  dollars — thirty 
— goin'  at  thirty — goin' — goin' ." 

"  Thirty-five,"  said  the  Major,  with 
an  effort. 

He  could  ill-afford  such  an  outlay 
from  his  slender  capital,  but  the  tempta 
tion  was  too  great  to  be  withstood.  He 
remembered  the  taste  of  that  brandy. 
He  remembered  the  old  days  when, 
across  the  mahogany  in  the  dining- 
room  of  the  Denison  house,  he  hurled 
his  Jacksonian  Democracy  into  the 
teeth  of  his  old  whig  friend,  feeding 
at  intervals  the  flames  of  his  enthusiasm 

39 


Dorset 


with  the  famous  Otard  cognac.  Why, 
the  thought  of  it  made  him  tipsy 
with  the  memories  of  three  decades. 
"Thirty-five,"  repeated  the  Major, 
huskily.  He  trusted  by  such  a  sweep 
ing  advance  to  discomfit  the  ambitious 
Silsbee. 

"  Thirty-six,"  said  the  tavern-keeper, 
imperturbably. 

The  Major's  face  fell.  He  had  lost  — 
he  realized  it.  It  was  plain  to  him  and 
to  the  others  that  Silsbee  carried  too 
heavy  an  armament.  "  Goin'  at  thirty- 
six,  goin'  at  thirty-six  —  any  one  say 
thirty-seven  ?  "  The  auctioneer's  face 
wore  a  contented  expression.  It  was 
proper  that  such  a  trophy  as  the  old 
Denison  brandy  should  be  in  the  pos 
session  of  what  was  in  those  days 
almost  a  municipal  institution  —  the 
village  tavern.  "  Goin',"  he  con 
tinued  —  "goin',  goin',  goin'  -  " 

"  Thirty-six   an'   ten   cents,"  said   a 
sharp,  metallic  voice.     The  bidder  was 
the  widow  Stanbro. 
40 


Gbe  Denfson  WenDuc 


The  crowd  stared  and  the  auctioneer 
paused,  open  mouthed.  The  Major, 
who  had  turned  away,  came  quickly 
back. 

"  What  was  that  ye  bid,  Mis'  Stan- 
bro?"  asked  Edwards  at  length. 

"  I  said  '  thirty-six  an'  ten  cents.'  " 

"  Thirty-six  DOLLARS  an'  ten  cents, 
reck'lect,  Mis'  Stanbro,"  said  Silsbee, 
patronizingly. 

"  Don't  trouble  'bout  me,  Homer 
Silsbee,"  said  the  widow  tartly.  "  I 
offered  ten  cents  for  the  keg  alone 
when  the  biddin'  begun — that  's  all  the 
thing  was  wuth  to  me — now  I  'm  biddin' 
on  what  it  'pears  to  be  wuth  to  some  of 
you  folks." 

"  Forty,"  said  Homer,  sullenly,  think 
ing  by  adopting  the  Major's  tactics  to 
silence  his  new  opponent. 

"  Forty  an'  ten  cents,"  returned  Mrs. 
Stanbro  promptly.  "  Oh,  I  'm  goin'  to 
bid  above  you,  if  it  takes  to  Christmas, 
young  man,"  she  added,  looking  tri 
umphantly  towards  Silsbee. 
41 


OIO  Dorset 

"  Did  n't  I  tell  ye  she  was  crazy," 
said  Balcom  once  more  to  Ezra  Spicer. 

"  I  dunno,  I  dunno,  mebbe  she  be," 
said  the  individual  addressed,  gazing 
wonderingly  at  the  old  woman  as  she 
sat,  her  chin  high  in  the  air,  her  mouth 
set  aggressively. 

"  Goin,"  began  Edwards. 

"  Forty-five,"  said  the  tavern-keeper. 

"  Forty-five  an'  ten  cents." 

"  Fifty,"  cried  Silsbee,  furiously — 
that  's  all  I  kin  pay,  that  's  all  it  's 
worth  to  me  an'  more — ef  you  kin 
beat  that  the  stuff  's  yourn." 

"  Fifty  dollars  an'  ten  cents,  what 
it  's  wuth  to  you,  plus  what  it  's  wuth 
to  me,"  said  the  widow,  placidly. 
Homer  plunged  his  hands  into  his 
breeches  pockets,  and  turned  angrily 
away. 

"  Fifty  an'  ten.  Fifty  an'  ten,  goin' 
at  fifty  an'  ten — goin'.  Edwards 
stopped  a  moment  and  gazed  appeal- 
ingly  at  Silsbee.  The  latter  shook  his 
head  sulkily.  "  Goin'  at  fifty  an'  ten, 
42 


Cbc  Bentscn  DenCme 


goin',  goin',  gone.  Gone  at  fifty  an* 
ten.  Mis'  Stanbro,  this  is  your  liquor 
on  receipt  of  fifty  dollars  an'  ten 
cents." 

As  the  tall,  spare  form  of  the  widow 
Stanbro  took  its  way  to  the  auctioneer's 
desk  the  crowd  broke  into  a  buzz  of 
surprise  and  speculation,  but  the  old 
woman  was  imperturbable. 

"Caleb!"  she  called  in  her  shrill, 
metallic  voice,  while  she  busied  herself 
with  the  leathern  bag  which  she  carried. 
A  lank,  raw-boned  farm  boy  sprang 
from  a  wagon  outside  the  gate  and 
hurried  towards  her. 

"  One  minute,"  she  said,  and  counted 
out  the  money  upon  the  box  before 
the  auctioneer.  "  Now,"  she  continued, 
"  roll  that  keg  into  the  street."  Caleb 
obeyed  her  command. 

"  Now,"  she  said  again,  turning  to 
the  throng  behind  her,  "  if  you  '11  all 
just  come  down  as  far  as  the  fence,  I  '11 
show  you  what  use  I  have  for  the  fine 
old  Denison  brandy."  She  turned  and 
43 


©I&  Dorset 

walked  towards  the  gate,  the  crowd 
following.  "  Caleb,"  she  said,  address 
ing  her  farm  hand  again,  "  got  that 
sledge?  "  With  a  grin  the  young  man 
lifted  a  heavy  hammer  from  the  wagon. 
"  Now,  stave  that  keg  in." 

But  before  the  hammer  had  been 
swung  the  Major,  rushing  forward,  had 
stayed  the  impending  blow.  "  One 
minute,"  he  cried,  "  one  minute,  Mrs. 
Stanbro,  in  the  name  of  common 
sense — why,  my  dear  madam — you 
know  I  would  n't  offend  a  lady,  but 
really  this  will  be  an  awful,  a  shameful 
waste." 

"  Major  Cooper,"  began  the  old 
woman  sternly. 

"  But,  my  dear  madam ." 

"  Did  I  pay  you  the  right  sum  ? " 
said  the  widow,  addressing  Edwards. 
"  I  guess  ye  did,"  growled  the  auction 
eer.  "  Well,  then,  just  let  me  be. 
Caleb?" 

"  But,  Mrs.  Stanbro,"  persisted  the 
Major,  "  here  's  Silsbee  and  I  will  give 
44 


Denfson  IDenDue 


you  sixty  dollars  for  it  together,  wont 
we,  Silsbee  ?  Ten  more  than  you  gave 
for  it — only  think." 

"  It  's  an  awful  waste,  Mis'  Stanbro," 
put  in  Ezra  Spicer,  who  with  the  Major 
and  Silsbee  had  drawn  close  to  the 
widow.  "  Why  just  think  how  valyble 
it  is,  medic'nally,  f'r  instance." 

"  Is  this  my  brandy  ?  "  exclaimed 
the  woman  once  more.  "  You,  Major 
Cooper,  is  it  ?  " 

"Yes,  Madam,"  said  the  Major, 
gloomily,  falling  back  and  dragging  the 
other  two  with  him,  "  I  regret  to  say 
it  is." 

"Caleb,"  said  the  widow,  shortly, 
"  stave  that  keg  in." 

The  brawny  farm  hand  swung  the 
sledge  high  in  the  air,  then  brought  it 
down  with  a  crash  upon  the  head  of  the 
cask.  It  yielded. 

"  Now,  turn  it  upon  its  side." 

The  young  man  did  as  he  was  or 
dered,  and  the  pungent  liquor  plashed 
and  rippled  musically  forth,  mingling 
45 


©Ifc  Dorset 

with  the  dust  of  the  village  street  and 
filling  the  whole  air  about  with  its  po 
tent  fragrance.  The  crowd,  save  for 
some  muffled  profanity  from  the  tav 
ern-keeper,  was  silent.  Presently  the 
widow  broke  forth : 

"  I  s'pose  you  all  would  like  to  know 
why  I  spilt  that  brandy.  I  '11  tell  you 
why.  You,  some  of  you,  will  remem 
ber  my  husband,  Joe.  As  handsome  a 
man  an'  as  good  a  farmer  as  ever  lived 
in  Pulteney  County.  Well,  listen  to 
me,  I  won't  keep  you  long.  He  was  a 
whig,  so  was  Colonel  Denison.  He  was 
strong  in  his  part  of  the  county  an' 
the  Colonel  knew  it.  An'  so  when 
Colonel  Denison  wanted  the  nomina 
tion  for  Congress,  he  asks  Joe  to  his 
house  an'  flatters  him  up  an'  gets  his 
influence.  Joe  was  pleased  an'  proud, 
that 's  human  nature,  an'  it  was  all  right 
till  he  begun  to  get  so  deep  in  that  he 
forgot  his  farm,  till  he  began  to  drink, 
an'  forget  his  wife.  And  where  did  he 

begin " 

46 


Cbe  DeniBon 


The  woman's  eyes  were  flaming  under 
her  swarthy  brows. 

"Where  did  he  begin  his  drinkin'? 
Right  in  that  house  there,  right  on 
that  porch,  there — with  old  Colonel 
Denison,  an'  Governor  Craig,  an' 
Homer  Silsbee's  father.  Oh,  they  were 
in  politics,  that 's  all.  That 's  what  Joe 
said  to  me — that 's  why  he  come  home 
smellin'  of  liquor;  an'  he  told  me  a  man 
would  be  a  fool  to  refuse  that  fine  old 
brandy  of  the  Colonel's.  That 's  what  he 
said  ;  my  poor  ruined  Joe."  The  stern 
face  of  the  old  woman  was  for  a  mo 
ment  convulsed  with  a  spasm  of  emo 
tion  and  tears  which  she  was  too  proud 
to  notice  rolled  down  her  face.  "  I  hear 
him  now,  tellin'  me  it  was  only  there  he 
ever  drank — an*  it  was  such  fine  old 
brandy,  an'  it  could  n't  harm  him.  You 
know  it  did — you  know  he  soon  drank 
everywhere  an'  anything!  Why  are 
my  boys  without  the  education  that  be 
longed  to  them  ?  Why  does  my  girl 
work  like  a  drudge  at  the  farm  ?  You 

47 


©ID  Dorset 

know  why.  The  whole  town  of  Dorset 
knows  why.  An'  so  I  said  to  myself 
when  I  heard  there  was  a  keg  of  this 
stuff  to  sell,  I  '11  buy  it,  and  I'  11  stave 
it  in,  an'  I  '11  spill  it,  that  liquor  Colonel 
Denison  started  my  poor  man  with  ; 
I  '11  spill  it,  every  drop  of  it,  an'  never 
another  shall  taste  it  for  a  help  to 
ruin.  An'  then  he  thought  so  much  of 
it,  the  old  Colonel,  an'  look  at  it  now, 
makin'  mud  in  the  village  street — keep 
back,  you ! " 

She  addressed  these  last  words  to 
Ezra  Spicer,  who,  with  a  pail  obtained 
from  a  neighboring  kitchen,  had  ap 
proached  the  keg  with  the  evident  pur 
pose  of  securing  a  few  drops  of  the  fast- 
escaping  fluid.  "  Stand  back,  I  tell 
you ! "  She  advanced  upon  Spicer 
who  beat  a  sullen  retreat.  "  Not  a  soul 
shall  taste  it,"  she  said,  and  then  stood 
motionless  and  silent  as  the  cask  slowly 
yielded  its  life-blood  to  the  soil.  A 
dog,  shaggy  and  yellow,  inserted  him 
self  inquisitively  among  the  throng,  ob- 


Cbe  Benlson  IflenDue 


served  the  flowing  brandy,  cautiously 
sniffed  at  it,  and  retired  with  sneezes 
and  a  look  of  reproach.  The  crowd 
laughed. 

"  You  can  laugh  if  you  like,"  said  the 
old  woman,  suddenly  ;  "  but  that  dumb 
beast  is  wiser  than  you  be.  Caleb  turn 
the  keg  on  end — so — any  left  now  ?  " 

"  Aint  no  more  left,  Mis'  Stanbro, " 
said  the  farm  boy. 

"  Get  in  then  an'  take  the  reins. " 
The  young  man  obeyed,  and  the  widow 
stepped  into  the  wagon  after  him.  Her 
face  was  full  of  stern  satisfaction.  A 
ray  of  humor  shot  suddenly  across  it 
as  she  noted  the  forlorn  expression 
upon  Spicer's  face. 

"  The  keg 's  mine  as  well  as  the  liquor, 
I  s'pose,"  she  said  ;  "  you  can  have  it, 
Ezry. " 

A  few  minutes  later  the  wagon  was 
vanishing  in  a  cloud  of  dust  of  its  own 
raising,  and  the  crowd,  marvelling,  were 
dispersing  in  various  directions.  Ezra 
Spicer  alone  remained,  seated  upon  the 

49 


©ID  Dorset 

inverted   cask,    into   whose    butt   was 
burned  the  legend,  "  Otard  DuPuy." 

"  Guess  Balcom  was  right,"  he  solilo 
quized,  "jest  about  ez  crazy  ez  they 
make  '  em — an'  yit,  an'  yit,  "  he  mur 
mured  to  himself,  "  I  kind  o'  wish 
there  'd  ben  some  o'  that  partickler  in 
sanity  in  my  fam'ly." 


Callanfcer. 


flfeabam  Callan&er. 


i. 


RICHARD  COOPER  had  always 
looked  forward  to  the  time  when 
he  should  find  himself  in  love,  an 
event  placed  by  him  in  his  day-dreams 
midway  in  the  sequence  of  fortune  be 
tween  admission  to  the  bar  and  standing 
for  the  legislature. 

He  was  ambitious  and  able,  and  his 
entry  upon  the  profession  was  made 
not  successfully  alone,  but  with  credit ; 
yet  two  years'  practice,  in  waiting,  found 
him  in  no  way  nearer  the  second  stage 
of  his  self-appointed  destiny.  His  mind, 
was  at  times  given  to  dreaming ;  and 
the  first  briefless  years  of  his  career  af 
forded  ample  opportunity  to  lay  out 
a  varied  future  for  himself.  Somehow 

53 


Dorset 


he  always  made  courtship  and  mar 
riage  the  corner-stone  of  his  Spanish 
castle.  Sometimes  he  went  so  far  as  to 
choose  a  best  man,  and  to  fill  the  old 
church  with  his  friends  ;  and,  on  one 
occasion  at  least,  to  ponder  upon  the 
fitness  of  a  flowered  waistcoat.  But  he 
never  allowed  his  fancy  to  depict  the 
bride.  She  was  not  even  tentatively 
represented  by  any  of  the  daughters  of 
Dorset  —  of  Dorset,  too,  when  famous 
for  its  pretty  women.  She  did  not  yet 
exist  even  in  nebulous  shape  within  the 
scope  of  his  mind's  eye. 

Had  he  possessed  greater  prospects 
he  might  have  been  regarded  and  criti 
cised  as  hard  to  please  in  the  choice 
of  a  wife,  but  having  no  claim  to  pecul 
iar  eligibility  he  was  looked  upon  only 
as  a  shy  young  man  of  much  self-control, 
evidence  of  the  latter  quality  being 
found  in  the  fact  that  having  barely 
visible  means  of  support,  he  did  not 
utterly  obscure  them  by  marrying. 

He  was  not  unattractive  personally. 

54 


CallanOcr 


Celtic-Scotch  and  New  England  blood, 
a  mixture  not  infrequent  in  Pulteney 
County,  gave  him  a  certain  virile  come 
liness  of  face,  and  a  strong,  well-knit 
figure.  Dorset  believed  in  matrimony 
and  he  might  easily  have  ended  his 
single  existence.  Among  his  family  a 
suspicion  grew  up  that  his  thoughts 
were  drifting  to  some  remote  region, 
beyond  the  county  limits.  "  Marry 
your  neighbors'  daughters  and  then  '11 
you  know  what  you  're  getting,"  said 
his  grand-aunt  pointedly  on  several 
occasions.  This  was  thought  sterling 
advice  by  all  who  heard  it,  save  him  for 
whom  it  was  meant.  To  him  it  was 
distinctly  unpalatable.  He  was  wait 
ing  for  Destiny,  and  Destiny  far  from 
attending  upon  his  wishes  spun  her  own 
web,  and  in  her  own  way. 

One  afternoon,  in  latter  September 
there  was  unusual  stir  in  the  main 
street  of  Dorset.  A  coach  had  drawn 
up  before  the  doors  of  the  "  Dorset 
Patriot."  A  yellow  coach  drawn  by 
55 


©ID  2>orset 

four  sorrels,  and  surrounded  by  a  score 
of  horsemen,  all  residents  of  the  county, 
from  Joe  Stanbro  in  farmer's  homespun, 
upon  a  horse  better  used  to  the  plow, 
to  Judge  Caldwell  in  sober  black  pre 
siding  with  ill-concealed  anxiety  over  a 
bay  mare  whose  contempt  of  court,  as 
sitting  at  the  time,  was  unmistakable. 
All  were  friends,  boon  companions  and 
clients  of  Colonel  Callander,  who  had 
ridden  out  to  meet  him  and  his  wife, 
a  bride  of  a  week,  to  escort  them  with 
fitting  honor  to  Dorset. 

Richard  Cooper  shut  the  book  he  had 
been  reading  and  went  to  the  window. 

Colonel  Callander  was  a  well-known 
figure  in  Dorset,  and  indeed  in  all  the 
"  Southern  Tier."  Fancy  a  well-pre 
served  man  of  fifty  standing  five  feet 
and  eight  inches  in  his  pumps — eyes 
hazel-brown  and  hair  of  the  same  hue. 
He  had,  too, 

"  A  Roman  nose, 
And  his  cheek  was  like  the  rose 
In  the  snow." 

56 


flba&am  CallanDet, 


Dress  him  with  some  care  in  garments 
apt  to  be  affected  by  a  middle-aged 
bridegroom  of  seventy  years  ago,  and 
you  have  the  Colonel. 

More  attention  must  be  given  to  the 
description  of  his  wife. 

Unfortunately,  no  portrait  of  her  at 
the  period  exists,  and  tradition  does 
not  always  deal  in  detail.  When  Dor 
set  was  still  enough  of  the  past  to 
value  the  evidence  of  an  oldest  inhabi 
tant,  that  dignitary — Marcus  Aurelius 
Tolliver,  one  time  body-servant  to  Col 
onel  Callander — was  wont  to  say  of  his 
master's  second  wife : 

"  Dey  aint  nevah  been  beauty  in  de 
town  sence.  You  see  de  Kernal,  an' 
you  suah  to  say, '  dar  's  blood — you  look 
at  Mis'  Kernal  an'  you  'bleege  to  'low 
dar  's  beauty ! "  But  when  the  aged 
Tolliver  was  called  upon  for  particulars, 
he  rambled  away  into  various  by-paths 
of  recollection,  vague  and  ill-defined. 
He  always  ended,  however,  with  a  bit 
of  real  description — "  Her  ha'r  had  de 

57 


Dorset 


feel  ob  de  co'n  silk,  an'  de  colah  ob  de 
ripe  husk." 

It  was  not  strange  that  the  old  negro 
was  at  a  loss  to  describe,  categorically, 
the  beauty  of  Mrs.  Callander.  Feature 
by  feature  there  was  nothing  far  out 
of  the  ordinary.  It  was  the  harmony  of 
all,  and  the  charm  of  a  perfect  skin,  blue 
eyes  full  of  esprit,  and  a  manner  some 
times  criticised  as  insincere,  because 
of  its  uniform  cordiality.  But  her  hair 
was  magnificent.  She  wore  it  massed 
upon  her  head  in  a  great  coil  of  gold, 
drawn  off  her  brow,  which  was  low  and 
broad,  and  giving  her  an  air  of  bland 
dignity,  charmingly  in  contrast  with 
her  youthful  looks. 


She  had  descended  from  the  coach 
at  her  husband's  request,  and  stood 
among  his  friends  and  constituents,  bow 
ing,  smiling,  courtseying  when  some 
elderly  man  was  presented,  and  ac 
knowledging  a  flood  of  compliment. 
58 


fliaDam  CailanDcc 


Suddenly,  for  no  accountable  reason, 
she  looked  up  and  caught  Cooper's  eye 
as  he  stared  at  her  from  his  window. 
He  was  gazing  with  so  much  intentness 
that  he  was  not  aware  that  his  regard 
was  too  fixed  in  its  nature.  Smiling 
slightly,  she  looked  away  ;  but  presently 
raised  her  eyes  towards  the  window 
again,  and  finding  Cooper  still  spell 
bound,  turned  with  a  slight  movement 
of  impatience  towards  her  husband. 

Cooper  turned  from  the  window,  took 
his  hat,  arranged  a  few  papers  upon  his 
table,  and  left  his  room.  He  went 
slowly  from  the  stairs  to  the  street. 
He  had  no  wish  to  join  the  throng 
below.  He  needed  no  introduction  to 
that  shining,  smiling  woman.  He  did 
not  at  the  time,  nor  till  long  after, 
realize  that  this  was  another  man's  wife. 
He  had  a  wild  desire  to  escape  from 
the  four  walls  of  a  house,  to  be  by  him 
self  in  the  fields,  in  the  woods — any 
where.  He  wanted  no  roof  above  him 
but  the  blue  sky — nothing  about  him 

59 


Dorset 


but  the  breadth  of  nature.  He  could 
not  account  for  his  feeling.  It  seemed 
to  him  as  though  he  had  seen  but  half 
the  light  of  day  before,  and  now  it  all 
poured  into  his  soul. 

As  he  passed  through  the  group  be 
fore  the  door,  the  Colonel  caught  sight 
of  him.  "  Why,  Dick,  my  boy,"  he 
called,  "  come  here  and  give  me  joy,  — 
this  is  my  wife.  Letty,  this  is  my  friend 
Mr.  Cooper,  one  of  our  leading  law 
yers." 

Mrs.  Callander  looked  up  at  Dick 
who  was  blushing  violently,  partly  be 
cause  of  her  presence,  partly  from  the 
Colonel's  somewhat  complimentary  de 
scription  of  him.  She  smiled  very 
cordially  as  she  gave  him  her  hand. 
Cooper  bowed  low  above  it.  "  I  saw 
you  from  my  office,"  he  said  awkwardly, 
as  he  released  her  hand.  He  wished  to 
say  something,  and  this  bald  statement 
was  all  that  would  come  to  him. 

"  I  saw  you  too,"  she  answered  sim 
ply  ;  then  again  she  smiled.  Something 
60 


CallanDec 


there  seemed  to  be  about  the  young  man 
unlike  all  others  she  had  met,  something 
so  ingenuous  and  intrinsically  sincere 
that  her  eyes  followed  him  as  he  slipped 
away  through  the  throng.  She  believed 
herself  in  love  with  the  excellent  gentle 
man  whose  wife  she  was.  She  thought 
herself  perfectly  happy,  and  one  of  the 
daughters  of  men  to  be  envied,  and  yet 
for  the  first  time  since  her  wedding,  she 
found  herself  thinking  of  marriage  as  a 
serious  matter,  entailing  duties,  curtail 
ing  liberties.  She  soon  forgot  Dick 
Cooper's  name,  but  that  evening  at  din 
ner  she  asked  her  husband  about  him  : 
"  that  young  man  with  light  hair  and 
blue  eyes — the  lawyer." 

"  George  Thornton,  I  suppose,"  said 
the  Colonel. 

"  No,  that  was  not  the  name." 

"  Oh,  little  Dick  Cooper,  a  very  nice 
boy." 

For  the  next  week  Cooper  did  but 
little  upon  the  work  he  had  in  hand,  and 
indeed  it  did  not  press  him.  With  a 

61 


<SHD  Dorset 

well-thumbed  copy  of  Shakespeare  in 
his  pocket  he  spent  many  hours  on  the 
river-bank  under  the  elms  and  butter 
nuts  of  the  Denison  farm.  One  day, 
prompted  perhaps  by  recent  reading  of 
"As  You  Like  It"  he  cut  deep  into  the 
bark  of  an  oak,  the  letters,  L.  C.  He 
had  half  a  thought  of  placing  his  own 
initials  beside  them  but  a  moment's  con 
sideration  showed  him  the  folly  and  im 
pertinence  of  such  an  act. 

He  saw  the  Colonel's  bride  several 
times  during  the  next  few  weeks,  at 
church.  He  found  cause  to  loiter  out 
side  the  door  until  she  came  out,  and 
each  time  she  recognized  him  and 
bowed  with  a  cordiality  on  which,  had 
he  been  a  vain  man,1  he  might  have 
congratulated  himself.  Once  as  the 
Colonel  stopped  to  speak  a  moment  to 
the  parson,  with  whom  at  the  time 
Cooper  was  talking,  Mrs.  Callander  was 
left  at  the  young  man's  side.  His  agi 
tation,  had  it  not  become  him,  would 
have  been  ludicrous.  But  a  blush 
62 


Aadam  Gallan&er 


looked  well  upon  his  face  and  his  eyes 
were  eloquent  though  his  tongue  was 
not.  Mrs.  Callander  "  liked  good  eyes," 
— she  told  her  husband  that  night,  and 
added  that  young  Cooper  had  the  hon- 
estest  pair  she  ever  saw — "  of  blue  that 
is,"  she  hastened  to  explain,  for  the 
Colonel's  were  as  brown  as  ripe  chest 
nuts.  A  less  clever  woman  than  Mrs. 
Callander  might  have  seen  compliment 
in  Dick's  eyes,  with  half  a  glance  of  her 
own,  as  she  waited  that  day  till  the 
Colonel  completed  his  chat  with  the 
parson. 

"  You  are  coming  to  us  to-morrow 
night,  are  n't  you,  Mr.  Cooper?"  she  said 
after  a  moment  of  silence  that  followed 
the  exchange  of  greetings. 

"  To  the  reception,  Madam  ?  Oh  yes, 
I  shall  be  very  glad." 

"Dick,"  said  the  Colonel — he  had 
bade  the  parson  good-day  and  rejoined 
them — "come  over  and  dine  with 
me;  just  two  old  people  there,  Madam 
and  I,  but  I  '11  give  you  a  good  drop  of 
63 


©10  Dorset 

sherry,   and    the  best    brandy   in   five 
counties.     Will  you  come  ?  " 

Dick  looked  at  the  Colonel,  then  at 
his  wife  whose  face  reflected  the  Colo 
nel's  hospitable  invitation.  He  wanted 
to  accept — was  on  the  point  of  doing  so, 
when  he  remembered  it  was  Sunday. 
His  people  were  strict  in  their  observ 
ance  of  the  day,  with  that  strenuous- 
ness  that  came  down  unrelaxed  from 
early  New  England. 

"  I — I  am  afraid  I  cannot,  thank  you, 
Colonel,"  he  said,  "  I  have  an  engage 
ment — that  is  I — well,  sir,  they  look  for 
me  home  on  Sundays  ;  " — he  bowed — 
very  red  and  flurried — and  hastened 
away. 

"  Queer  little  Puritan,"  said  the  Col 
onel,  laughing. 

"  A  very  nice  boy,"  said  his  wife, 
thoughtfully. 

"  Had  an  engagement,  ha,  ha,  ha !  " 
laughed  Callander,  "  an  engagement  for 
a  cold  lunch  at  Elder  Cooper's  I 
reckon." 

64 


Aadam  GallanDcc 


"  Well,  he  said  so  ;  he  told  the  truth 
and  he  did  n't  want  to  either,"  said 
Mrs.  Callander.  "  He  's  a  very  nice 
young  man." 

"  Hey !  "  said  the  Colonel,  looking 
down  at  her  humorously — "  'Pears  to 
me  I  hear  a  good  deal  of  '  nice  young 
man.'  "'  She  smiled  fondly  at  him  in 
return,  and  clasped  his  arm  a  little 
closer.  The  Colonel  was  not  a  jealous 
man,  and  indeed  had  little  cause  to  be. 

Cooper  never  before  had  been  in  the 
Callander  house.  When  he  appeared 
there  the  night  of  the  reception  there 
was  a  glitter  of  mirrors  and  a  shimmer 
of  mahogany  everywhere  that  im 
pressed  him,  and  made  him  unhappy. 
He  drifted  from  room  to  room  trying 
to  appear  perfectly  at  his  ease,  and  at 
supper  found  himself  in  a  corner  of  the 
dining-room  not  far  from  the  coffee-urn 
over  which  Mrs.  Callander  presided. 
Do  what  he  could,  it  was  impossible  to 
keep  his  eyes  from  her,  and  knowing 
that  she  noticed  this  and  was  fully 
65 


Dorset 


aware  of  his  presence,  he  ransacked 
his  mind  for  some  appropriate  speech. 
It  was  one  of  the  unlovely  pranks  of 
fortune  that  his  post  was  also  near 
to  a  bowl  of  generous  proportions 
about  which  was  gathered  a  knot  of 
merry  gentlemen  led  thither  from  time 
to  time  by  their  host.  During  one  of 
his  advances  upon  the  punch,  the  Col 
onel  caught  sight  of  young  Cooper 
silhouetted  against  the  wall.  "  Here, 
Dick,"  he  said,  "  you  look  thirsty, 
come,  fill  up  —  yes,  one  ;  with  me,  with 
me.  You  know,  —  Sunt  qui  nee  pocula  " 
(the  Colonel  knew  his  Horace  when  in 
convivial  mood),  "  come,  my  boy."  So 
Dick  came,  and  having  swallowed  one 
cupful  with  his  host,  drank  another 
with  Judge  Caldwell,  for  he  always 
concurred  with  the  Court. 

Then  he  went  back  to  his  place  and 
less  furtively  than  before  continued  to 
watch  his  hostess  as  she  bent  above  the 
coffee-cups.  Presently  he  found  that 
he  had  thought  of  several  things  to  say 
66 


/lib  a  Dam  CallauDcc 


to  her,  had  he  the  chance.  In  a  few 
moments  she  looked  across  at  him 
again.  This  time  she  laughed  out 
right — the  laugh  of  an  innocent  and 
vivacious  woman  amused  by  the  freaks 
of  a  boy. 

"  Mr.  Cooper,"  she  said,  and  beckoned 
to  him.  He  came  at  once,  dimly  con 
scious  that  the  law  of  gravitation  was 
in  some  way  weakening  its  grasp  upon 
his  feet.  "  Was  there  something  you 
wanted  to  say  to  me  ?  "  Mrs.  Callander 
asked  with  a  gleam  of  amusement  upon 
her  face.  She  intended  to  play  a  little 
with  the  young  man,  and  had  hit  upon 
a  question  best  fitted  to  bring  the  inci 
dent  to  an  untoward  finish.  Cooper 
was  not  versed  in  the  coquetry  of  men  ; 
he  did  not  understand  it  in  women. 

"  Yes,  Madam,"  he  said  with  a  low 
bow,  "  I  wished  to  say  that,  that,  you 
are  beautiful — you  are  adorable." 

"  Mr.  Cooper !  "  Mrs.  Callander 
stared  at  him  in  angry  surprise.  She 
had  meant  to  amuse  herself  and  had 
67 


©ID  Dorset 

been  fitly  rewarded.  In  a  moment  she 
admitted  to  herself  that  the  fault  lay 
with  her,  and  as  she  looked  upon  the 
straightforward  countenance  of  the 
young  man  she  knew  that  intentional 
disrespect  was  impossible  from  him. 
The  displeasure  faded  from  her  beauti 
ful  face : 

"  Mr.  Cooper,"  she  said,  "  I  must 
warn  you  against  the  punch.  It 's  a 
brew  for  men  of  my  husband's  age." 

It  gave  her  a  satisfaction  to  bring  her 
husband  in  at  the  close  of  the  episode, — 
for  she  felt  he  had  not  figured  in  her 
thoughts  at  its  beginning, — and  a  cer 
tain  malicious  pleasure  in  warning 
Cooper  from  the  punch.  She  liked  his 
quaint  manner,  and  what  he  had  said 
did  not  in  the  least  offend  her,  coming 
from  him.  But  he  must  not  be  over 
bold  and  she  had  rebuked  him.  When 
she  looked  for  him  again,  having  at 
tended  to  the  cups  of  a  group  of  elderly 
beaux,  he  was  gone. 

Cooper  left  the  Callanders  without 
68 


flbadam  Callan&er 


bidding  good-night  to  the  hostess.  He 
slept  but  little  that  night.  He  saw 
with  a  startling  clearness  the  channel  in 
to  which  he  had  turned  his  dearest 
thoughts.  He  was  thankful  to  the 
humiliation  of  the  evening,  for  it  took 
the  edge  from  his  misery,  with  its  little 
acid  of  wounded  amour  propre. 

But  he  knew  that  he  could  not  re 
main  in  Dorset  and  do  himself  justice 
in  his  chosen  profession.  He  had 
thought  before  of  a  clerkship  with  a 
well-known  law  firm  of  New  York  City, 
open  to  him  through  a  kinsman,  and  he 
determined  to  accept  it.  Two  days 
later  he  took  coach  for  Albany. 


II. 


The  third  winter  of  Mrs.  Callander's 
life  in  Dorset  was  an  uncommonly 
severe  one.  Twenty-five  years  ago  it 
was  still  remembered.  Wolves  filled 
the  woods  upon  the  south  hill,  and 
many  sheep,  in  the  valley  below,  fell 
69 


©ID  Dorset 

victims.  Early  in  the  winter  Colonel 
Callander  was  taken  ill,  and  the  malady 
lingered  on  into  the  spring.  His  young 
wife  was  all  to  him  that  could  be  asked. 
She  was  undoubtedly  very  fond  of  him. 
He  was  still  a  personable  man,  and  in 
address  and  polish  there  were  few  in 
that  part  of  the  State  who  ranked  with 
him.  Again,  his  social  position,  his 
reputed  wealth,  his  political  honors, 
brought  him  a  deference  even  in  demo 
cratic  Dorset  that  also,  in  a  way,  was 
accorded  to  his  wife.  So  far  as  her 
nature  had  ever  been  awakened,  she 
loved  her  husband,  though  his  dignities 
did  not  render  him  personally  less 
acceptable  to  her.  Sometimes  she 
thought  of  Dick  Cooper,  and  mused 
with  rather  more  than  ordinary  abstrac 
tion  upon  his  impetuosity  and  sim 
plicity.  She  regretted  his  absence,  for 
she  would  have  liked  to  see  him  occa 
sionally,  and  the  days  were  long  and 
uneventful. 

One  morning  in  April,  Death  came  to 
70 


CallanOcr 


the  most  hospitable  threshold  in  Dorset, 
and  like  every  comer  was  received. 
Colonel  Callander,  of  whom  with  all  his 
foibles  it  might  well  have  been  written, 

' '  Not  a  better  man  was  found 
By  the  cryer  on  his  round 
Through  the  town," 

was  gathered  not  to  his  fathers,  but  sad 
as  it  reads,  to  his  sons,  all  of  whom,  his 
first  wife's  children,  had  died  before 
him.  In  the  great  white-pillared  house, 
with  only  servants  to  keep  her  company, 
Mrs.  Callander  entered  upon  her  widow 
hood. 

The  details  of  the  first  year  have  no 
place  in  this  chronicle.  She  had  be 
come  "  Madam "  Callander  to  the 
village,  in  place  of  "  Colonel  Callan- 
der's  second  wife,"  for  it  was  now  cer 
tain  that  she  would  have  no  successor. 
If  she  had  been  proud  of  her  husband's 
social  and  political  eminence  before  his 
death,  this  pride  intensified  with  each 
month  of  her  widowhood.  The  Colonel, 
71 


5)orset 


one  of  the  least  pompous  of  men,  would 
scarce  have  known  how  to  accommo 
date  himself  to  his  consort,  had  he 
arisen  from  the  dead,  and  reappeared, 
at  a  year's  end.  In  some  quarters  her 
naive  certainty  that  her  husband  had 
been  the  "  roof  and  crown  of  things," 
and  that  she  was  his  sole  legatee  in  the 
matter  of  personal  importance,  excited 
comment,  amusement,  and  backbiting. 
With  most  people,  however,  it  was 
taken  with  good  nature.  The  Colonel 
had  been  an  excellent  neighbor,  his 
purse-strings  were  never  drawn  tight, 
and  many  a  rough  farmer  whose  Jack- 
sonian  democracy  would  have  resented 
condescension  or  patronage  from  an 
other,  suffered  it  good-naturedly  from 
Madam  Callander.  It  was  believed 
in  Dorset,  that  in  time,  the  Colonel's 
widow  would  forget  his  compounding 
of  finer  clay  to  the  extent  of  taking 
another  mate  ;  and  when  Judge  Hen- 
shaw  of  a  neighboring  county  offered 
his  honored  name  and  position,  and  was 
72 


CallanDec 


refused,  the  town  felt  genuine  surprise. 
Not  long  after  George  Thornton,  of 
South  Tiberius,  a  young  man  of  good 
family  and  wealth  met  a  similar  denial 
and  Dorset  entertained  doubts  as  to  the 
proper  balance  of  Madam  Callander's 
mind. 

She  made  no  secret  of  her  reason  for 
deciding  as  she  had.  She  did  not  gra 
tuitously  express  herself,  but  when  two 
matrons  whose  curiosity  and  conscience 
had  become  hopelessly  commingled, 
felt  it  their  duty  to  call  and  ask,  she 
spoke  with  candor.  "  Women  marry," 
she  said,  "  usually  for  one  of  three 
causes:  love,  wealth,  or  position."  She 
neither  loved  the  Judge  nor  Mr.  Thorn 
ton  ;  she  was  fairly  well  to  do,  and  as  to 
position,  why,  with  many  ruffles  and 
rising,  she  was  Madam  Callander,  and 
liked  the  name.  People,  the  maxim 
says,  "  usually  take  you  at  your  own 
valuation,"  and  she  was  taken  at  hers, 
which  was  that  of  her  deceased  husband, 
plus.  She  lived  quite  alone,  among  her 
73 


©ID  2>orset 

servants,  and  this  doubtless  helped  her 
to  over  estimate  her  position  in  the 
little  world  in  which  she  moved.  She 
was  finally  credited  with  having  no 
heart.  It  was  simpler,  after  all,  to  be 
lieve  in  her  incapacity  to  love,  than 
that  she  could  not  be  suited,  or  that 
she  was  satisfied  with  her  present  lot. 

III. 

One  day  in  September,  when  the 
doors  of  the  houses  stood  open  for  what 
wind  was  stirring  ;  a  very  warm  day — a 
stray  dog-day  as  it  were — Madam  Cal- 
lander  sat  upon  the  west  porch  of  her 
mansion,  reading  with  great  inattention, 
for  she  was  in  no  way  bookish.  The 
sun  through  the  elms  traced  shifting 
arabesques  upon  the  broad  path  to  the 
gate,  and  the  maples  fluttered  their 
leaves,  just  turning,  in  the  occasional 
breeze.  The  great  gate  clicked  as  it 
swung  shut,  and  Madam  Callander 
looked  down  the  walk.  A  young  man 
74 


CallanDcr 


faultlessly  dressed  in  the  mode  of  the 
city,  was  coming  towards  the  door. 
She  stared  a  moment  in  surprise,  then, 
recognizing  him,  rose  and  went  on  tip 
toe  into  the  house,  curiously  conscious 
of  a  blush  that  spread  across  her  face. 


Dick  Cooper  had  returned  from  New 
York  for  the  first  time  in  several  years. 
He  was  greatly  improved  personally. 
His  place  though  a  very  subordinate 
one,  in  the  office  of  a  city  lawyer  of 
prominence,  had  done  much  for  him. 
He  considered  himself,  in  a  way,  a  man 
of  the  world,  and  wore  his  clothes  with 
as  much  nonchalance  as  though  they 
had  not  been  his  best.  As  he  moved 
about  the  shadowy  drawing-room  of  the 
Callander  house,  managing  every  few 
moments  to  pass  in  review  of  the  great 
mirror,  he  felt  a  sense  of  amusement 
in  recalling  his  first  evening  there — the 
fictitious  elation  of  the  latter  part  of 

75 


Dorset 


the  evening,  and  its  mortifying  sequel. 
He  was  full  of  a  confidence,  born  of 
deep  inexperience,  that  he  had  attained 
the  s  avoir  fair  e  of  a  worldling,  and  was 
ready  to  meet  upon  her  own  or  even  a 
loftier  footing,  the  woman  whom  absence 
and  determined  effort  had  not  brought 
him  to  forget. 

He  was  preening  himself  at  the  glass, 
adjusting  his  stock  and  collar,  and  ad 
miring  the  fit  of  his  coat,  when  in  the 
mirrored  background,  he  saw  the  form 
of  Madam  Callander.  He  turned,  blush 
ing  to  his  hair,  and  went  a  step  towards 
her.  Shame  at  being  found  before  the 
mirror,  and  a  sudden  rush  of  memories, 
made  him  almost  speechless.  She  saw 
his  discomfiture  and  profited  by  it  to 
hide  a  little  confusion  of  her  own.  She 
had  intended  to  treat  him  as  Madam  Cal 
lander  might  have  treated  the  Cooper 
of  four  years  since.  He  had  determined 
to  meet  her  as  one  who  knew  the  great 
world,  and  would  not  be  condescended 
to.  A  certain  quantity,  as  unmeasured 
76 


CallanDci- 


in  its  varying  potency  as  the  symbol  x 
to  nth  power,  had  been  overlooked  by 
both.  There  can  be  no  doubt  that  the 
love  which  Cooper  frankly  admitted  to 
himself,  was  felt  in  an  undefined  way 
by  the  woman  who  stood  before  him. 
She  was  the  first  to  speak. 

"  You  are  a  great  stranger,  Mr. 
Cooper;  you  are  here  upon  a  vacation, 
I  suppose  ?" 

"  No,  Madam,"  replied  Dick,  nettled 
at  what  he  considered  a  suggestion  that 
he  was  not  his  own  master,  "  I  am  here 
permanently." 

"  Indeed  !     As  a  lawyer  still  ?  " 

"  As  a  lawyer  still."  There  was  a 
moment's  silence.  Cooper  felt  he  was 
being  talked  down  to,  but  could  not  get 
upon  a  loftier  footing. 

"  You  will  find  many  changes,"  said 
Madam  Callander,  noting  with  ap 
proval  the  young  man's  garb — "  many 
changes." 

"  You  have  not  changed,"  said  Dick 
bluntly.  His  society-manner,  which  he 
77 


OIC>  Dorset 

supposed  fully  acquired,  had  deserted 
him,  and  his  old  directness,  one  of  his 
chief  charms,  flashed  out  unguardedly. 
He  could  not  have  made  a  more  fortu 
nate  speech.  Compliment,  even  when 
not  so  sincere  as  this,  was  dear  to 
Madam  Callander. 

"  Ah,  yes,"  she  said,  smiling  gra 
ciously.  "  I  fear  I  have,  and  you  cer 
tainly  have.  I  should  know  at  once 
you  were  from  New  York.  I  hardly 
recognize  you.  Yes,  you  have  surely 
changed." 

"  Not  in  oneway,  Madam,"  said  Dick, 
looking  her  full  in  the  face. 

She  may  or  may  not  have  understood 
him.  There  had  always  been  a  certain 
magnetism  between  them,  and  it  is 
probable  she  did  not  miss  his  meaning. 
She  rose,  and  ringing  a  bell,  "  Will  you 
take  some  refreshment,  Mr.  Cooper?  " 
she  asked,  in  her  most  winning  manner, 
then  with  a  smile  of  raillery,  "not 
punch,  we  don't  brew  it  here  these 
days." 

78 


CallanDer 


Cooper  laughed  and  rose  too,  and 
side  by  side  they  strolled  up  and  down 
the  room.  "  I  came  here  to-day  to  beg 
pardon,"  he  said  ;  "  't  is  better  late  than 
never,"  and  again  they  laughed.  Mar 
cus  Aurelius  answering  the  bell,  noticed 
several  things  with  the  eye  of  an 
observer. 

"  Mist'  Coopeh  done  pick  up  in  he 
looks !  Mis'  Kernal  blushin',  blushin', 
fo'  suah  !  "  He  saw  evidences  of  what 
seemed  to  him  an  impending  complica 
tion.  He  was  devoted  to  his  mistress 
and  to  the  memory  of  his  master,  the 
Colonel.  As  he  brought  in — upon  a 
salver  that  used  to  bend  under  the  ro 
bust  drink  of  the  late  Ewen  Callander 
— the  new-fashioned  beverage  ordered, 
his  face  wore  an  added  shade,  of  gloomy 
apprehension.  But  the  disapproval  of 
Marcus  Aurelius  Tolliver  did  not  per 
vade  the  atmosphere,  which  was  charged 
with  friendliness ;  the  ice  was  broken 
and  for  an  hour  the  talk  rattled  merrily 
along.  At  last,  when  Cooper  took  his 

79 


Dorset 


leave,  it  was  tempered  by  a  request  that 
it  should  be  but  au  revoir. 

As  for  the  widow  of  the  late  Colonel 
Callander,  she  did  not  understand  her 
self.  Half  indignant,  half  pleased,  she 
sat  alone  at  her  supper.  The  heavy 
silver  which  shone  before  her  had  origi 
nally  belonged  to  the  Colonel's  first  wife. 
At  his  second  marriage  it  had  been 
re-cast  in  a  more  fashionable  mold  and 
her  monogram  wrought  upon  it.  She 
found  herself,  and  blushed  vividly  at 
the  discovery,  reflecting  that,  in  a  cer 
tain  event,  a  change  of  monogram  would 
be  unnecessary.  And  a  few  moments 
later  —  it  seemed  ominous  to  her  —  the 
voice  of  Marcus  was  heard,  terminating 
in  a  higher  key  a  long  but  suppressed 
conversation  with  the  cook  : 

"  Change  de  name  and  not  de  lettah, 
Change  fo'  wuss  and  not  fo'  bettah." 

She  was  greatly  annoyed,  more  perhaps 
at  the  prophecy  than  at  what  may  have 
inspired  it. 

80 


CatlanDec 


IV. 

It  was  a  curious  courtship  ;  full  of  the 
bitter  sweet  to  Cooper.  It  need  not 
be  supposed  because  for  once  Madam 
Callander  descended  from  her  pinnacle 
that  she  was  always  minded  to  walk  the 
earth.  Dick  was  compelled  to  avail 
himself  of  these  occasions  with  what 
patience  he  was  master  of. 

One  of  his  errors  at  the  outset  was  in 
asserting  that  he  had  seen  in  New  York, 
or  elsewhere,  men  of  as  much  address 
and  presence  as  Colonel  Callander.  And 
his  anecdotes,  most  of  them  second 
hand  to  him,  of  the  splendor  of  city 
houses  were  received  with  inattentive 
disbelief,  and  did  not  advance  his  suit. 
He  wished  to  win  in  his  capacity  of  "  fin 
ished  "  man,  but  he  at  last  came  to  know 
that  in  his  case,  as  always,  the  "  real " 
succeeds  in  the  end.  Himself  honest, 
direct,  simple,  and  truthful,  was  the 
better  man  in  the  contest  upon  which 
he  had  entered. 

81 


©R>  Dorset 

Meantime  the  town  looked  on  in 
wonder.  It  might  be  thought  that  the 
success  of  one  born  in  Dorset  and  con 
nected  with  its  traditions,  in  an  affair 
in  which  influential  outsiders  had  failed, 
might  have  aroused  some  degree  of 
satisfaction.  But  the  village,  like  many 
others  of  its  kind,  had  much  local  envy 
to  little  local  pride.  Many  concluded 
that  Madam  Callander  was  a  fool — 
others,  that  she  was  making  one  of 
Cooper.  Some  who  had  marvelled  at 
her  loyalty  to  her  husband's  name  were 
now  incensed  to  think  she  should  for  a 
moment  forget  it. 

That  she  had  many  returns  of  her 
devotion  to  the  Colonel's  memory  is 
certain.  It  was  trying  to  know  that  she 
would  have  to  sink,  should  she  marry 
again,  to  plain  Mrs.,  from  her  assured 
title  of  Madam.  Her  circumstances 
though  straitened  since  her  husband's 
death,  were  supplemented  by  her  social 
position.  A  life  of  modest  felicity 
with  a  practically  briefless  lawyer 
82 


CallanDer 


seemed,  at  times,  to  present  an  attrac 
tion  decidedly  tempered.  Colonel 
Callander  had  a  distinct  charm  about 
him,  the  charm  of  the  gentleman  of  the 
old  school,  and  of  the  old  world,  and 
its  remembrance  was  often  strong  in 
his  widow's  mind. 

Thus  it  happened  upon  several  occa 
sions  when  Cooper  had  tried  to  urge 
his  suit  to  an  understanding,  that  ca 
price  and  coquetry  and  unworthy  pride 
stood  in  his  path,  and  turned  the  op 
portunity  away  into  the  limbo  of  lost 
chances.  He  was  not  always  patient 
under  these  rebuffs.  Had  he  been  even 
less  patient  he  would  have  fared  better. 
He  was  not  what  is  known  as  "  master 
ful  "  towards  women.  He  had  much  of 
the  old-time  impracticable  chivalry  that 
submits  to  tyranny  from  a  woman, 
whilst  smarting  under  it. 

The  winter  passed  swiftly,  and  with 
spring  came  the  determination  to  bring 
affairs  to  a  crisis. 

One  May  evening  at  the  edge  of 
83 


©ID  Doreet 

dusk,  he  crossed  the  little  river  that  ran 
between  the  town  and  the  Callander 
house.  Before  he  left  the  bridge  he 
stopped  and  looked  westward  up  the 
stream  at  the  afterglow  above  the  hills. 
He  had  a  feeling  that  he  was  approach 
ing  some  turning  point  in  his  life  and 
that  these  familiar  sights,  the  willow- 
bordered  banks,  the  garrulous  brown 
riffles,  the  pebbly  bars,  these  boyhood 
friends,  were  in  a  sort  of  undefined 
sympathy  with  him.  Upon  McRae's 
hill  he  saw  the  lone  tree  black  against 
the  fading  light, — a  tree  that  in  his 
boyhood  seemed  at  sunset  as  myste 
rious  as  the  tree  of  the  knowledge  of 
good  and  evil.  He  stood  some  mo 
ments  at  the  bridge-end,  in  the  fading 
twilight.  As  he  walked  in  the  dusk  up 
the  path  to  the  Callendar  house,  there 
was  an  earthy  smell  from  the  garden, 
and  the  earlier  lilacs  lent  their  fra 
grance  to  the  air. 

Madam  Callander  was  expecting  him. 
Some  instinct,  perhaps,  told  her  that  it 
84 


GallanDer 


was  a  critical  hour.  She  hastened  nerv 
ously  to  fence  herself  round  as  she  had 
often  done  before,  with  constant  allu 
sion  to  the  Colonel's  virtues.  She  en 
tered  upon  a  history  of  the  Callander 
family,  and  proved  to  her  own  content 
that  the  county  out  of  which  the  Colo 
nel  had  made  his  money,  owed  him  a 
debt  of  gratitude  for  enriching  himself 
from  its  broad  acres.  Scarce  space  for 
a  word  was  given  Cooper.  Only  when 
called  upon  to  assent  or  concur  did  he 
find  opportunity  of  speech.  His  deter 
mination,  which  he  had  resolved  should 
this  night  prevail,  retired  baffled.  Any 
word  as  to  a  husband  future  seemed 
out  of  keeping  in  this  atmosphere  of 
husband  past.  He  was  discomfited 
and  also  incensed,  and  it  was  a  burst  of 
temper  that  finally  cleared  the  course 
for  plainer  sailing. 

"  He  was  the  first  gentleman  of  the 
county,"  said   Madam  Callander,  wav 
ing  her  fan  dreamily ;  "  the  first,  and  in 
deed  the  only  one, — I  mean,"  she  added 
85 


©ID  Dorset 

hastily,  for  she  saw  the  quick  flash  of 
resentment  in  Cooper's  eye,  "  the  only 
one  according  to  old-world  ways  of 
thinking."  The  first  part  of  her  sen 
tence  had  been  enough  without  its  ill- 
chosen  ending. 

Cooper  rose. 

"  Madam,  you  and  I  think  very  dif 
ferently.  I  believe  there  were  a  score 
as  good,  yes,  and  some  better,  than 
Colonel  Callander !  " 

"Sir!" 

"  Yes,  Madam,  I  mean  it.  What  was 
he  more  than  we?  and  he  was  no  Ameri 
can,  by  birth  at  least." 

"  Ah,  no,  he  could  n't  be  President, 
as  you  may  be,  some  day,  could  he  Mr. 
Cooper?  But  he  was  a  gentleman,  and 
there  is  no  one  in  this  town  worthy  of 
being  thought  of  in  the  same  minute 
with  him." 

"No  one?" 

"  No  one — that  is — "  Cooper  was  too 
angry  to  notice  the  tremulous  look 
about  Madam  Callander's  mouth,  or  to 
86 


flbaDam  Callan&er 


heed  the  little  shake  in  her  voice.  He 
was  very  proud,  falsely  so,  in  some  de 
gree.  His  family  was  as  good  as  any 
in  the  county,  better  than  many,  aware 
of  its  respectability  but  bitterly  con 
scious  of  its  poverty  as  well. 

He  turned  and  went  a  few  steps  tow 
ards  the  door.  Then  he  faced  about 
and  bowed  low.  "  I  wish  you  had  told 
me  before,  Madam,"  he  said.  She  had 
risen  and  come  a  few  steps  nearer  him. 
"  Why  should  I,  pray  ?  "  she  asked  in  a 
fine  tone  of  disdain  which  was  far  from 
sincere,  and  which  did  not  conceal  a 
pang  of  regret  and  alarm.  The  words, 
not  the  voice,  touched  Cooper. 

"  Why  ?  Madam,  why  ?  Because  for 
the  last  six  months,  day  after  day,  I  've 
been  hoping,  believing,  that  at  some 
time  you,  you  might,  as  you  've  some 
times  acted,  learn  to  love  me." 

"  Mr.  Cooper !  " 

"  Yes,  Madam,  you  have,  indeed  you 
have  !  You  can't  deny  it." 

"You  are  forgetting " 

87 


5>orset 


"  I  know  I  am  ;  I  can't  help  it.  Ah, 
Madam,  Letty,"  he  cried  taking  her 
hand  which  she  passively  left  to  him, 
"  why  can  't  you  be  yourself  for  once  — 
for  once,  dearest,  just  once  !  " 

Madam  Callander  disengaged  her 
hand  and  seated  herself.  She  was 
pleased  with  Cooper's  fervor  and 
gratified  with  his  spirit,  but  she  had 
no  intention  of  sudden  capitulation. 
Cooper  came  to  her  side  and  bent  over 
her.  "  Ah,  Letty  !  "  he  said,  "  Letty  ! 
I  Ve  loved  you  so  long,  since  I  first 
saw  you  —  and  none  but  you.  Care  for 
me  a  little,  tell  me  you  will  —  just  a 
little,  even  !  I  '11  do  anything,  every 
thing,  to  be  worthy  of  you.  Can't 
you,  dearest  ?  " 

She  had  been  listening  in  a  rapt,  at 
tentive  way  to  what  he  said,  but  her 
eyes  were  fixed  upon  some  distant 
object.  Suddenly  she  sobbed  and 
raised  her  hands  to  her  face.  Cooper 
turned  hastily  in  the  direction  that  her 
eyes  had  held  and  saw  gazing  benig- 


Callan&er 


nantly  from  the  canvas,  the  portrait  of 
Colonel  Callander.  He  looked  down 
at  her.  Her  face  was  bent  forward, 
and  her  hair  had  fallen  about  her 
temples. 

"  Have  I  made  a  mistake  ?  "  he  said 
huskily.  She  did  not  answer. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  after  a  moment,  "  I 
have  forgotten  myself,  Madam — I  wish 
to  God  I  might  forget  you.  Oh,  Letty," 
he  cried  holding  out  his  hands  once 
more — "  why  can't  it  be,  why  will  you 
not  come  out  of  your  past  and  leave 
him  ?  Let  him  be  the  one  forgot ! 
What  right  has  he  between  us  now  ?  " 

She  was  silent  still,  but  was  leaning  a 
little  towards  him,  her  face  bent  upon 
her  breast.  He  would  have  kissed  the 
ground  she  trod  upon,  but  he  dared 
not,  unbidden,  touch  her  lips. 

It  is  an  old  saying — about  the  faint 
heart  and  the  fair  lady — and  there  is  a 
kind  of  restraint,  half  chivalric  respect, 
half  inexperience,  that  is  at  times  as 
fatal  as  faint-heartedness. 
89 


©ID  Dorset 

There  was  another  moment  of  silence, 
and  then  a  sudden  belief  that  he  had 
been  played  with  sprang  up  in  Cooper's 
mind.  "  Well,"  he  said,  "  I  was  mis 
taken.  Good-bye."  He  went  into  the 
hall,  took  his  hat,  then  said  again, 
"  Good-bye."  There  was  still  no 
answer  and  he  went  out  into  the 
darkness.  The  path  reeled  before  him, 
his  eyes  were  burning,  but  as  yet  un- 
dimmed  ;  his  throat  seemed  parched. 
In  the  shadow  of  the  great  stone  gate 
post  he  stopped,  let  the  gate  swing  to 
again  without  passing  it,  and  leaned 
against  the  wall  to  recover  his  self-com 
mand.  Presently  he  heard  footsteps, 
then  his  name  called.  It  was  Madam 
Callander,  and  in  a  moment  she  stood 
by  the  gate,  opened  it  and  ran  down  the 
dark  road,  "  Dick !  Dick !  "  he  heard 
her  cry.  His  name  had  never  sounded 
so  sweet  to  him  before,  and  there  was  a 
ring  in  her  voice  that  he  had  never 
heard  till  then.  The  light  dawned 
upon  his  mind  and  he  understood. 
90 


Callan&ct 


At  first  he  started  to  follow  her,  then, 
supposing  that  she  would  return  at 
once,  he  drew  back.  A  little  tingling  of 
wounded  self-pride  still  teased  him.  He 
had  run  after  her,  been  her  dog,  her 
shadow,  so  long,  it  was  not  unpleasant 
to  think  of  her  now  pursuing  him,  so 
he  waited  in  shadow  of  the  wall. 

Some  minutes  passed, — hours  they 
seemed  to  him.  His  resentment,  his 
desire  for  petty  revenge,  had  left  him 
— showing  to  him  as  it  went  the  un 
manly  thing  it  was.  He  became  fearful 
that  some  harm  might  have  come  to  her, 
when  suddenly,  as  he  was  about  to  go 
in  search,  he  heard  her  coming  up  the 
road.  In  the  light  of  the  rising  moon, 
a  light  that  did  not  yet  disclose  his 
shelter,  he  saw  her.  Her  beautiful  hair, 
"  yellow  like  the  husk  of  the  ripe  corn," 
had  fallen  about  her  shoulders,  her 
hands  were  clasped  in  front  of  her,  and 
she  was  crying  unrestrainedly.  As  she 
came  to  the  gate  his  impulse  was  to 
step  forward,  open  it,  and  take  her  in 
91 


Doreet 


his  arms.  Then  he  felt  a  sense  of  being 
an  eavesdropper,  one  who  had  unfairly 
surprised  her  in  a  mood  he  had  by  his 
pettishness  lost  the  right  to  enter.  He 
knew  her  pride  and  feared  its  workings, 
should  she  know  he  had  seen  her  in 
humiliation. 

She  came  into  the  yard  and  stood  a 
moment  looking  across  the  gate,  the 
tears  bright  upon  her  face  in  the  moon 
light.  Then  she  turned,  so  near  him 
he  could  almost  touch  her,  shivered 
slightly  and  went  up  the  path  to  the 
house.  He  waited  until  he  heard  the 
click  of  the  door  as  it  swung  shut, 
then  softly  opened  the  gate  and  took 
his  way  to  the  village. 

That  night  he  wrote  a  long  and 
polite  letter  to  his  friend  in  New 
York,  stating  that  his  determination  to 
practice  his  profession  in  Dorset  would 
be  final,  and  thanked  him  for  his  past 
favors  and  courtesies.  He  also,  before 
closing  his  letter,  asked  that  his  friend 
would  purchase  for  him,  repaying  him- 
92 


CnllanDcc 


self  out  of  certain  moneys  then  due  and 
owing  him  from  the  firm,  a  piece  of  silk 
of  flowered  pattern,  designed  for  waist 
coats,  one  in  all  ways  suitable  to  a  man 
of  thirty,  contemplating  matrimony. 
Then  he  sealed  the  letter,  marked  it 
personal,  with  heavy  underscorings,  and 
went  to  bed. 

IV. 

At  four  o'clock  the  following  after 
noon,  Cooper  was  again  upon  the  bridge. 
Half  way  across  he  saw  the  doctor's 
gig  moving  sedately  towards  him.  It 
did  not  occur  to  Dick  that  the  doctor's 
countenance  as  he  nodded  to  him  was 
grave  from  aught  but  professional  cares. 
The  great  gate  to  the  Callander  place 
stood  wide  open,  and  as  he  entered  the 
other  physician  of  the  village  drove  by 
him  to  the  road.  Then  in  an  instant 
fear  fell  upon  him  and  he  stopped, 
startled  and  faint.  He  looked  towards 
the  windows  of  the  room  he  knew  was 
Madam  Callander's.  The  shutters  were 
93 


Olc>  Dorset 

closed.  He  went  eagerly  to  the  porch 
and  mounted  the  steps.  The  great 
knocker  was  swathed  and  muffled.  As 
he  stood  trembling  before  the  well- 
known  threshold,  black  Phebe  came 
tiptoeing  around  a  corner  of  the  broad 
porch.  "  For  God's,  sake  what  's 
wrong  ?  "  said  Cooper  tremulously. 
The  woman  sobbed  hoarsely  and  came 
nearer.  "  Mis'  Kernal  very  bad,  suh," 
she  whispered,  crumpling  and  kneading 
her  apron  in  her  hands.  "  She  done 
have  two  doctahs.  Fevah,  suh,  typhoy 
fevah.  She  done  fergit  us  all,  suh." 
Phebe  covered  her  face  with  her  apron 
and  cried  softly. 

Cooper  leaned,  sick  and  silent,  against 
the  house.  He  remembered  in  a  flash 
that  she  had  been  bareheaded  as  she  ran 
by  him  the  night  before — that  she  had 
no  wrap  about  her  light  evening  gown, 
no  protection  against  the  treacherous 
damp  of  spring.  And  he  had  let  her 
go,  in  his  childish  fit  of  spleen  and 
wounded  self-love  ! 
94 


CallanDer 


His  voice  was  thin  and  hollow  as  he 
turned  again  to  the  old  servant. 

"  Can  I  do  anything;  any  little  thing, 
even,  to  help,  Phebe  ?  "  he  said. 

"  Oh,  no,  suh  ;  thank  you  kindly,  suh. 
Evyting  ben  looked  foh.  Mis'  Wes- 
ton  ben  hyar,  an'  Mis'  Denison.  Dey 
done  look  out  foh  evyting.  She  done 
speak  yo'  name  dis  maw'n,  suh.  She 
done  speak  it  twice,  but  now  she  fergit 
us  all,  an'  talk,  talk,  talk  'bout  de  Ker- 
nal,  like  he  was  hyar  still.  Oh,  befoh 
de  Lord,  ef  de  Kernal  was  hyar  fer  jess 
a  little,  he  done  make  her  well." 

Cooper  left  the  porch  and  went  un 
steadily  to  the  gate.  Oh,  the  ghastly 
beauty  and  freshness  of  everything ! 
The  river  sparkled,  and  how  green  the 
fields  lay,  stretching  against  the  base  of 
the  south  hill !  He  saw  things,  as  he 
hurried  aimlessly  along,  but  all  under  a 
film  of  nightmare.  She  would  die  and 
it  would  be  he  who  killed  her, — he  with 
his  silly,  wicked,  childish  pride.  And 
she  had  called  his  name  that  very 
95 


©ID  Dorset 

morning,  when  he  perhaps  was  sleeping 
— dreaming  of  assured  success.  And  it 
was  small  wonder  she  spoke  of  him  no 
more,  but  called  for  the  dead.  Better 
call  for  the  dead  Colonel.  He  had 
never  let  her  risk  her  life,  to  gratify  a 
senseless  pride.  He  had  been  a  man,  a 
a  man,  a  man  ! 

It  was  well  that  Cooper's  course  lay 
away  from  the  village  among  the  mead 
ows,  whither  he  had  unwittingly  turned, 
for  he  was  little  better  than  a  madman, 
muttering,  crying  out,  tossing  his  hands 
as  he  went. 

After  a  long  half  hour,  calmer  but 
wild  looking  and  haggard,  he  came  to 
the  river-bank,  to  the  spot  where  stood 
the  oak  upon  which  he  had  once  cut  the 
initials  of  the  woman  he  loved. 

Half  asleep  in  the  slanting  sunlight, 
his  back  propped  against  an  outcrop 
ping  root  from  the  great  tree  that 
shaded  the  deep  water  of  "  Denison's 
Hole,"  lay  a  man.  It  was  Ezra  Spicer, 
the  village  outcast  and  drunkard,  popu- 
96 


CallanDcr 


lar  with  parents  as  a  warning,  and  fur 
tively  beloved  by  many  a  boy  for  his 
kind  offices  in  the  gentle  art  of  an 
gling. 

As  Cooper  stopped  and  stood  a  mo 
ment  near  him,  Ezra  turned,  nodded  in 
a  friendly  way,  and  resumed  watching 
his  float.  Presently  he  turned  again 
and  looked  more  carefully  at  the  other. 

"Ye  aint  sick,  be  ye,  Dick  ?  "  he  asked 
gently. 

"  No,  Ezra,"  replied  Cooper,  with  a 
forced  laugh  ;  "  only  played  out — tired 
out — no  sleep  lately." 

Ezra  shook  his  head.  "  Wai,  I  s'pose 
that 's  from  too  much  lawin'.  I  used 
to  worry  some  myself  till  I  took  to 
fishin'.  Set  down,  wont  ye?" 

Cooper  shook  his  head.  "  Wai,  '/  is 
damp,  bad  weather  fer  chills  an'  ager. 
Say — there  's  sickness  up  to  Mis'  Cal- 
lander's.  Is  it  Mis'  Callander  herself  ? 
'T  is,  hey !  Wai,  now,  as  I  was  goin' 
home  last  night,  I  seen  some  one  set- 
tin'  by  the  bridge-end  nighest  Kernal 
97 


©ID  Dorset 

Callander's,  no  shawl  ner  bonnet  on, 
cryin' — oh,  cryin'  so  I  could  hear  her ; 
— an'  I  kind  o*  thought  she  looked 
like  Mis'  Callander,  an'  I  told  Liza  so. 
She  said  I  wa'n't  in  no  fit  way  to  see 
who  't  was,  an'  mebbe  that 's  so  ;  but 
I  sez  to  myself,  whoever  't  was,  '  it 's  a 
bad  time  fer  chills  and  ager,'  an'  I — " 
Suddenly  across  the  speaker's  slow- 
moving  mind  came  the  recollection  of 
the  reports  that  were  in  many  quarters, 
of  Cooper's  devotion  to  Madam  Cal 
lander.  He  broke  off  his  rambling 
talk  at  once,  drew  his  line  in  with  great 
comparative  activity,  and  examined 
the  bait.  "  I  thought  I  had  a  bite  just 
now,  an'  I  guess  I  did"  he  said,  then 
turning,  saw  that  Cooper  was  walking 
swiftly  along  the  river-path  towards 
the  bridge.  "  Wai,  I  am  a  derned  bass- 
wood  fool,"  he  muttered  to  himself. 
"  So  't  was  Mis'  Callander — an'  she  was 
lookin'  fer  some  one  too — an'  I  guess 
Dick  Cooper  aint  fur  from  his  name, 
nuther." 

98 


jflfcadam  CallanOec 


So  certain  facts  from  circumstantial 
evidence  passed  into  local  history. 

V. 

Mrs.  Callander  did  not  die,  but 
recovery  was  very  slow.  As  time 
went  on,  indeed,  it  was  whispered  that 
recovery  would  never  be  complete. 
Cooper  was  as  regular  each  day  at  the 
Callander  house,  as  the  doctor  himself. 
From  Phebe  he  was  able  to  learn  the 
daily  news  with  moderate  exactness. 
She  had  long  known  his  secret  and 
suspected  her  mistress's  inclinations. 
She  scorned  her  husband's  forebodings 
as  to  change  of  name  without  change 
of  initial  letter,  partly  because  she  dis 
agreed  with  any  statement  dogmatically 
advanced  by  Marcus.  Again  and  again 
Cooper  would  ask  her,  "  Does  she  ever 
speak  my  name,  or  mention  me?"  And 
at  first  Phebe  answered  truthfully,  but  as 
the  weeks  ran  on  and  convalescence  be 
gan  slowly  to  assert  itself,  and  no  name 
of  man  but  that  of  Ewen  Callander 
99 


©ID  Dorset 

passed  the  sick  woman's  lips,  the  negress 
in  sheer  pity  drew  upon  her  fancy. 

"  Oh,  yas,  honey,  she  done  speak  ob 
yd — foh  suah ;  yas  suh,  yas,  indeed,"  and 
poor  Cooper  would  go  home  comforted. 

At  last  the  doctor  announced  that 
Madam  Callander  might  again  see  her 
friends,  and  Cooper,  meeting  Dr.  Gra 
ham,  asked  leave  to  call.  The  doctor 
looked  at  him  in  such  a  way  that  the 
other  saw  he  understood  his  anxiety 
and  its  cause  and  then  said,  "  She  should 
have  nothing  to  excite  her." 

"  Well — perhaps — well,  I  can  wait,  I 
can  wait,  "  said  Dick.  The  tone  of  dis 
appointment  in  his  voice  touched  the 
doctor's  heart.  He  was  an  elderly  man, 
a  cousin  of  Cooper's  father,  and  Dick's 
love  affair  was  well  known  to  him. 

"  No,"  he  said  hesitatingly,  a  curious 
look  upon  his  face, "  I  think  you  may  go, 
in  fact  you  'd  better  go  as  soon  as  you 
can." 

Cooper  thanked  him  and  went  his 
way  wondering  somewhat  at  the  doc- 


fl&afcam  Caltan&er 


tor's  words,  but  that  same  afternoon 
found  him  at  the  gate  of  the  Callander 
house,  his  heart  beating  almost  to  pain, 
his  hands  cold  and  nerveless.  He  saw 
Phebe  upon  the  porch.  She  showed 
him  into  the  drawing-room,  answering 
his  questions  in  a  way  that  seemed  to 
him  constrained  and  unnatural. 

Everything  in  the  great,  dim  room 
spoke  to  him  of  his  past,  his  past  so 
brief  a  time  gone  by,  but  so  remote. 
He  had  no  set  speech  this  day  to  utter. 
He  had  parted  with  what  little  arti 
ficiality  he  had  once  assumed.  .  .  . 

She  was  coming — he  heard  the  rustle 
of  skirts,  the  tap,  tap,  of  feet  upon  the 
stair,  a  shadow  crossed  the  threshold  of 
the  door,  and  now  she  herself  stood 
there.  He  sprang  forward,  both  his 
hands  outstretched,  a  voiceless  cry  in 
his  throat ; — then  he  dropped  his  hands 
to  his  side. 

She  was  not  greatly  changed  physi 
cally,  thinner  of  course,  and  the  roses 
not  yet  in  her  cheeks.  Her  beautiful 

101 


Borset 


hair,  which  had  not  been  sacrificed,  was 
drawn  as  of  old  from  her  low  white 
forehead,  her  eyes  were  bright  and  blue 
as  ever,  and  she  was  smiling. 

But  in  those  eyes,  not  one  ray  beyond 
the  light  of  mere  recognition  shone  ; 
in  that  smile  sedate  and  kindly,  were 
only  complaisance  and  the  half  con 
descension  she  had  displayed  to  the 
Richard  Cooper  of  years  before.  As 
he  stood  in  frozen  silence  she  came 
toward  him. 

"  It  's  Mr.  Cooper,  is  it  not,"  she  said, 
as  she  put  out  her  hand,  "  and  when  did 
you  return  ?  "  He  murmured  some  re 
sponse  and  sank  into  a  chair  she 
pointed  to. 

"  It  is  your  vacation,  I  suppose,"  she 
went  on,  in  a  voice  as  passionless  and 
devoid  of  remembrance  as  falling  water. 
Then  in  the  same  weird  echo  of  words 
she  had  spoken  once  before  she  said. 

"  You  will  find  many  changes." 

"  I  find  them,"  he  said  hoarsely.  She 
stared  a  moment,  rather  at  his  voice 


/JfeaDam  CallanOcr 

than  at  the  words,  then  rising,  went 
towards  the  mantle-shelf. 

"That  is  an  excellent  portrait  of 
him,"  she  said.  "Ah,  what  a  man  he 
was  and  what  a  loss  to  Dorset."  .  .  . 

Cooper  never  could  recall  without  a 
shudder  the  few  minutes  that  elapsed 
before  he  could  make  his  farewells. 
Stunned  and  heartbroken  he  found  his 
way  to  the  village.  In  the  broad  shady 
street  near  the  church  he  again  met 
Doctor  Graham.  "Dick,"  called  the 
latter.  Cooper  went  to  him. 

"  Did  she  know  you  ? "  said  the 
doctor  bluntly. 

Cooper  looked  at  him,  flushed,  and 
turned  away.  "Yes,"  he  answered 
stiffly. 

"Stop,"  called  the  other.  "Dick, 
this  is  my  business  even  if  you  don't 
think  so.  Your  secret 's  no  secret  to 
me,  and  I  must  ask  you  what  I  do,  as 
a  doctor.  Now,  tell  me  ;  how  much 
had  she  forgotten  ?  " 

"  Forgotten !  "  cried  Cooper  bitterly, 
103 


©ID  Dorset 

"  oh,  Doctor,  Doctor,  she  'd  forgotten 
all  I  hoped  she  might  remember." 

He  took  hold  of  the  muddy  spokes 
of  the  wheel  and  swayed  himself  back 
wards  and  forwards  in  his  anguish,  the 
tears  streaming  down  his  face.  The  old 
man  put  a  kind  hand  upon  his  shoulder. 
"  Dick,"  he  said,  "  be  a  man.  She 
never  will  remember,  I  'm  afraid,  my 
boy — but  be  a  man,  make  new  memo 
ries,  don't  give  up."  Cooper  shook  his 
head  and  turned  away.  He  knew  that  a 
little  divine  spark  that  glows  but  once 
for  every  man  and  woman,  had  gone 
out.  He  felt  that  some  memories  once 
lost  are  never  replaced,  and  he  was 
but  too  right. 

VI. 

Madam  Callander  never  caught  up 
the  lost  stitches.  What  power  of  lov 
ing  had  been  in  her  in  that  time  so 
vanished,  so  effaced,  seemed  now 
changed  to  a  morbid  devotion  to  her 
dead  husband,  a  devotion  that  excluded 
104 


CallanDet 


all  things  else.  It  must  not  be  thought 
that  Cooper  at  once  abandoned  hope. 
But  during  the  several  occasions  follow 
ing,  upon  which  he  saw  Madam  Callan- 
der,  she  was  so  oblivious  of  him  in  any 
character  but  that  of  young  Dick 
Cooper,  the  lawyer,  that  he  eventually 
gave  way.  Other  aspirants  for  her 
hand  in  the  course  of  the  next  few 
years  appeared,  but  he  felt  no  envy. 
He  knew  what  the  result  must  be. 
And  their  rejections  were  so  final  in 
character,  so  abrupt  in  manner,  that 
suitors  grew  wary.  Whereas  Madam 
Callander  had  once  been  wont  to  say 
"no  "  courteously,  sometimes  compas 
sionately,  her  present  attitude  was  one 
of  indignation  upon  being  asked  to  take 
a  successor  to  the  Colonel.  It  was  in 
comprehensible  to  her,  either  that  she 
should  be  considered  by  any  chance  in 
the  way  to  be  comforted,  or  that  any 
man  should  deem  himself  worthy  to  fill 
Colonel  Callander's  place.  As  time 
went  on,  her  old  predilection  for  Cooper 
105 


©ID  2>orset 

had  a  sort  of  shadowy  revival  in  a  de 
cided  liking  she  grew  to  have  for  him. 
She  was  glad  to  have  him  call  upon  her 
— she  used  to  confide  in  him. 

He  had  become  a  rather  prematurely- 
old  looking  man  with  serious  eyes,  and 
an  expression  half  quizzical,  half  sad. 
He  would  listen  to  her  by  the  hour 
while  she  talked  of  the  Colonel's  merits 
and  of  the  past.  It  cut  him  to  the 
heart  at  first,  but  he  grew  used  to  it. 
And  it  was  a  joy  in  a  half  tragic  way, 
merely  to  sit  and  watch  her,  and  to 
know  that  she  was  really  his,  his  own, 
if  but  those  chords  of  memory  should 
once  awaken. 

So  years  drifted  by.  With  the  Mexi 
can  war  a  regiment  was  formed  in  the 
Southern  Tier,  and  Cooper  went  out  as 
captain  of  a  company.  He  distin 
guished  himself  at  Molino  del  Rey  and 
again  at  Chapultepec,  and  two  years 
later  returned,  a  major,  to  Dorset.  He 
had  contemplated  exchanging  into  the 
regular  service,  certain  influences  being 
106 


CallanDcr 


powerful  at  his  back,  but  the  tendrils  of 
the  past  were  too  strong  to  break,  and 
the  desire  to  be  near  his  love  too  keen 
to  resist.  Had  he  been  formally  re 
jected,  had  he  found  that  he  had  never 
been  loved,  he  could  not  have  remained 
in  his  native  town.  But — he  had  been 
loved ;  she  was  his,  though  she  could 
not  know  it,  could  not  be  told  of  it,  and 
he  would  stay  as  near  her  side  as  he  was 
permitted  and  never  leave  her  again. 

He  never  did. 

Years  went  and  came.  Cooper  grew 
gray  and  somewhat  infirm.  Time 
treated  him  with  no  more  than  ordinary 
deference,  but  it  touched  Madame  Cal- 
lander  lightly  and  lovingly.  She  never 
entirely  lost  her  beauty. 

She  grew  more  prone,  as  she  grew 
older,  to  prattle  of  the  Colonel.  She 
treated  Cooper  upon  his  return  from 
Mexico,  bringing  honor  and  title,  with 
great  respect,  and  the  gray-haired 
Major  with  his  patient  sad  eyes  would 
listen  to  her,  twice  a  week,  with  mili- 
107 


©ID  Dorset 

tary  regularity,  as  she  spoke  of  the  well- 
known  past,  her  past  and  the  Colonel's. 
He  never  failed  to  assent  to  any  eulogy 
of  the  departed,  however  extravagant, 
and  Madam  Callander  once  said  that 
he  was  the  only  man  in  Dorset  who 
had  not  been  jealous  of  her  husband. 

The  garden  of  her  memory  was  grown 
up  to  old-time  flowers,  like  a  country 
door-yard,  where  pinks,  and  hollyhocks, 
and  dahlias,  and  peonies  bloom  and 
thrive. 

VII. 

She  died  suddenly,  almost  painlessly. 
Her  maid  Phebe,  a  woman  past  eighty 
years  of  age,  was  by  her  side.  The 
negress  heard  her  mistress  say  softly  to 
herself  part  of  the  church  service,  and 
saw  her  suddenly  raise  herself  in  the 
bed  and  put  her  hands  to  her  eyes. 
The  old  woman  leaned  over  towards 
her  and  as  she  did  her  mistress  flung 
herself  with  a  sob  upon  her  breast. 

"Oh,  Phebe,  Phebe,  he  has  gone,"  she 
108 


dfca&am  Callan&et 

cried.  "  I  Ve  lost  him,  I  've  lost  him." 
The  memory  so  long  asleep  had 
wakened. 

The  two  women,  the  black  and  the 
white,  whose  hair  time  had  turned  the 
same  shade,  and  whose  hearts  had  been 
always  of  a  color,  sobbed  together  in 
the  darkness  of  the  sick-room. 

Presently  Madam  Callander  slipped 
back  upon  her  pillow.  She  was  quiet  a 
moment,  murmured  something  to  her 
self,  quivered,  and  then  lay  still.  .  .  . 

This  Phebe  told  to  Major  Cooper, 
and  during  the  rest  of  the  day,  and  the 
next,  to  the  hour  of  the  obsequies,  his 
face  wore  a  look  serene  and  happy,  such 
a  look  as  had  not  been  upon  it  for  many 
years.  Some  people  wondered  at  this, 
and  said  that  age  turns  blood  cold,  and 
when  the  Major,  though  he  went  to  the 
church,  refused  to  go  to  the  grave,  un 
kind  things  were  said.  But  they  did 
not  touch  him  in  any  way.  He  had 
pondered  upon  the  matter,  and  he  could 
not  get  himself  to  see  the  woman  he 
109 


©10  Dorset 

had  loved  so  truly  and  for  so  long  laid 
by  the  dust  of  a  man  he  felt  had  not 
the  real  right.  He  had  loved  her 
longer  than  Ewen  Callander.  He  had 
loved  her  a  lifetime,  and  now  she  must 
sleep  by  the  side  of  a  man  whose  un- 
awakened  wife  she  had  been. 

He  did  not  follow  to  the  grave,  but 
went  instead  to  the  river-bank,  to  the 
old  oak  he  knew  and  loved.  From  his 
pocket  he  took  a  chisel  and  hammer 
and  recut  the  letters,  almost  untrace- 
able  now  from  the  outgrowth  of  bark. 
Then,  below,  he  put  his  own  initials. 
He  had  the  right  now  at  the  last,  for  at 
the  last  she  had  returned  to  him. 


no 


Expiation  of  J6sra  Spicer. 


Eypiation  of  iBstti  Spicer. 


i. 

HPHE    sun    of    early  June  was  two 
1       hours    above   the   highest    pines 
along  the  ridge  of  the  south  hill. 

The  slanting  rays  lighted  the  shallow 
waters  of  the  Connedaga  and  lured  the 
fish  from  pools  below  the  banks  into 
the  riffles.  The  steers  and  yearlings  in 
the  Denison  meadows,  straying  in  vari 
ous  directions  from  their  night  huddle, 
were  laying  with  steadfast  industry 
foundations  for  their  noon-tide  cuds. 
The  milkers  were  reappearing  from  the 
lane  which  led  to  the  great  gambrel- 
roofed  red  barn,  and  with  their  lowing 
mingled  at  times  the  distant  bay  of  a 
hound. 

"3 


The  valley  of  the  Connedaga  was  at 
its  best — tibe  day  was  growing  in 
IM  •Ij — bat  there  was  one  at  least 
from  whom  the  smile  of  nature  gained 

n  I    r ^rr^l  'I  r~  ~c         .*"*".  * .  -  "  ? 

that  set  up  their  screen  along  the  river 
coarse,  and  filed  like  a  tapestried  web 
the  spaces  between  the  trees,  crouched 
man  of  middle  age,  whose 
almost  gentle,  face  was  piti 
fully  wrought  upon  by  terror.  He  was 
gasping  hoarsely  for  breath  and  his 
eyes  were  fixed  with  painful  eagerness 
upon  the  skirt  of  wood  about  the  base 
of  MacRae's  Hffl.  FnaiBilj  his  wind 
|KUtiy  restored,  but  still  panitng  deeply, 
he  slipped  into  the  stream,  pushed  rap- 
idljr  across,  the  water  about  his  kneesT 
aad  disappeared  among  the  alders  on 
the  other  bonk.  A  minute  later  he 
reappeared  in  the  meadow  a  few  rods 
beyond,  and  ran,  stooping,  along  its 
bonier,  keeping  ia  the  half  shelter  of  a 
fence  of  stumps.  At  a  point  in  the 
stream  perhaps  a  quarter  of  a  mile  from 
"4 


©ID  Dorset 

the  water,  ordered  the  others  to  follow 
and  the  company  were  presently  upon 
the  opposite  shore,  when  a  clamor  from 
the  hound  showed  the  trail  once  more 
established. 

A  short  digression  is  needed  to  ex 
plain  the  presence  of  a  scene  like  the 
one  described — within  the  boundaries 
of  New  York  State.  .  .  . 


II. 


When  Major  Norris,  late  of  Din- 
widdie  County,  Virginia,  attracted  by 
the  ardent  representations  of  his  friend 
Colonel  Callander,  followed  the  great 
waterway  of  the  Susquehanna  to  remote 
Pulteney  County,  he  brought  with  him 
a  large  household  of  blacks. 

A  score  of  years  went  pleasantly  by 
in  the  pursuit  of  such  pleasures  as  the 
little  backwoods  county-seat  afforded 
before  the  Major  found  need  and  leisure 
to  count  the  cost.  When  at  last  he  did 
so,  he  discovered  himself  face  to  face 

116 


Cbe  Bipfatlon  of  Esra  Spfcec 


with  facts  as  unpleasant  as  creditors — 
and  harder  to  shun.  He  had  run  his 
horses  into  premature  old  age,  and  him 
self  into  inextricable  debt.  His  farm 
— plantation  he  chose  to  call  it — was 
heavily  mortgaged,  and  his  only  unin- 
cumbered  property  a  score  of  "  likely  " 
negroes.  Such  of  these  as  were  needful 
to  the  Major  as  grooms  or  house  serv 
ants  lived  upon  his  place,  and  were  de 
pendents  upon  his  kitchen — but  nearly 
half  of  them  had  long  been  in  practical 
emancipation.  Major  Norris,  in  his  days 
of  prosperity,  was  an  easy  master  and 
permitted  such  of  his  "  people  "  as  he 
had  no  immediate  employment  for  to 
toil  for  themselves,  live  in  their  own 
way,  and  enjoy  the  fruits  of  their  labor. 
But  with  the  coming  of  the  evil  day, 
and  the  final  departure  of  the  last  hours 
of  credit,  the  Major  turned  his  eyes,  al 
though  regretfully,  upon  his  servants — 
whose  market-value,  in  Maryland  or  Vir 
ginia,  might  yet  recoup  him,  and  bridge 
the  way  to  better  days.  What  hesita- 
117 


<$>ID  Dorset 

tion  he  felt  at  the  outset  vanished 
promptly  when  the  rumors  came  with 
continually  increasing  volume  that  the 
State  of  New  York  was  about  to  free 
all  negroes  within  its  limits. 

As  yet  it  had  done  little  more  than 
forbid  the  traffic  in  slaves  and  provide 
for  the  gradual  emancipation  of  children 
of  slave  parents  born  within  the  State 
after  Independence  Day,  1799.  The 
exportation  of  slaves  was  also  forbidden, 
though  a  master  removing  permanently 
from  the  State,  by  observing  certain 
legal  formalities,  might  take  his  slaves 
with  him. 

It  was  still  remembered — twenty-five 
years  ago — by  the  oldest  inhabitant, 
how,  one  by  one,  the  negroes  of  the 
Norris's  household  disappeared,  ostensi 
bly  to  be  employed  upon  a  farm  said  to 
be  owned  by  the  Major  near  the 
Pennsylvania  line.  And  long  time  in 
the  ears  of  the  early  inhabitants  echoed 
the  indignation  that  arose  from  a 
whisper  to  a  full-voiced  outcry,  when 


Bjpiation  of  B3ta  Sptcer 


the  Major,  relying  upon  his  prerogative 
of  master,  began  to  impress  for  the  same 
farm  service  the  negroes  who  had  been 
permitted  by  him  to  enjoy  for  years  a 
half-freedom. 

This  indignation  however  was  mainly 
among  the  younger  men — Cyrus  Wes- 
ton,  Richard  Cooper  and  others  of  their 
age — or  rough-and-ready  rustic  charac 
ters  like  Captain  Ball,  whose  upland 
farm  to  the  south  of  the  roll-way  hill 
had  served  more  than  once  as  a  refuge 
for  fugitive  blacks.  The  older,  more 
conservative  and  perhaps  more  repre 
sentative  men  in  Dorset  belonged  to 
two  sorts.  Men  like  Judge  Barton, 
who  took  an  Old  Testament  view  of 
slavery,  while  guarding  a  conscience 
and  morality  of  the  strictest  New  Eng 
land  type,  and  others  who  with  Colonel 
Calander  opposed  anything  approaching 
radicalism  and  a  further  extension  of  the 
rights  of  man — even  then  encroaching, 
as  the  honest  Colonel  held,  upon  the 
rights  of  men.  As  yet  too — though  no 
119 


Dorset 


one  doubted  its  speedy  enactment  — 
emancipation  was  still  in  the  future. 
The  opposition,  therefore,  which  Major 
Norris  had  to  combat  was  hardly  more 
than  passive  and  he  urged  his  enter 
prise  with  the  energy  of  a  man  whose 
time  is  limited  and  whose  conscience  is 
clear  —  for  it  is  only  fair  to  say  that  the 
Major,  fully  believing  that  he  possessed 
all  the  rights  of  a  Virginia  master,  had  no 
doubts  as  to  the  probity  of  his  conduct, 
though  he  regretted  its  necessity. 

Two  days  previous  to  the  morning 
upon  which  this  chronicle  opens,  a 
burly,  keen-eyed,  fat-faced  man,  well- 
dressed,  but  with  the  look  of  a  drover 
in  broadcloth,  took  lodging  at  the  Eagle 
Tavern,  signing  himself  Captain  Faxon, 
Culpepper,  Virginia.  He  was  no  stran 
ger  to  John  Silsbee,  the  proprietor. 
Twice  before  had  the  Captain  visited 
Dorset,  and  on  each  occasion  addi 
tional  harvesters  had  been  needed  at 
Major  Norris's  somewhat  mythical  farm 
upon  the  Pennsylvania  border. 


Bjpiatton  of  B3ra  Spicer 


On  the  following  day  it  was  known 
that  Carter  Sampson,  a  negro  nominally 
the  property  of  Major  Norris,  but  for 
years  practically  a  free  man,  had  left 
his  home  and  was  supposed  to  be  in 
hiding. 

Now  Carter  Sampson  was  already  pos 
sessed  of  a  small  competence — he  was 
a  leading  member  of  the  negro  contin 
gent  in  the  congregation  over  which 
Parson  Knowles  was  established,  and 
he  had  many  friends  among  the  poor, 
both  white  and  black,  by  reason  of  his 
unpretending  charity. 

It  is  a  curious  commentary  upon  the 
time,  however,  that  no  measures  were 
taken  to  block  Faxon's  activities.  The 
slave-trader,  for  so  he  actually  was,  pos 
sessed  a  certain  diplomacy  and  cunning 
that  carried  him  unimpeded  along  the 
line  of  his  efforts.  To  his  mind  Samp 
son  was  as  much  an  animal  and  a  chat 
tel  as  the  beagle  the  trader  had  borrowed 
to  track  him,  but  he  half  met  the  gen 
eral  disapproval  of  his  quest  by  dwell- 

121 


©R»  Dorset 

ing,  with  men  of  the  better  element  in 
Dorset,  upon  the  injustice  of  a  man's 
not  being  allowed  to  do  as  he  would 
with  his  own, — and  among  the  less  re 
spectable  by  a  profuse  hospitality  dis 
pensed  before  the  "  Eagle  "  bar.  He  had 
obtained  some  assistance  on  his  other 
visits  by  the  liberal  use  of  money,  and 
it  was  by  bribing  that  he  had  induced 
the  negro,  Lucas  John,  a  man  of  great 
strength  and  personal  courage  though 
of  little  principle,  to  assist  him ;  a 
treachery  to  his  color  that  was  for 
years  bitterly  laid  up  against  the  black. 
It  was  through  this  renegade's  informa 
tion,  and  by  his  assistance,  that  Faxon, 
with  two  white  followers,  stablemen  in 
the  Major's  employ,  laid  the  beagle's 
nose  to  a  true  scent  this  morning  in 
June,  18 — . 

III. 

Ezra  Spicer  had  half  filled  his  pail 
with  suckers,  and  was  beginning  to 
meditate  upon  a  homeward  course.  It 

122 


Ejpiation  of  E3ra  Spicec 


was  four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  and 
by  the  time  he  could  reach  the  Eagle 
tavern,  whither,  in  funds  or  not,  he  in 
variably  repaired  at  the  day's  close,  it 
would  be  nearly  supper-time.  He  had 
seen  Faxon  and  his  following  that  morn 
ing  beating  the  undergrowth  of  the 
swampy  meadows  a  quarter  of  a  mile 
from  his  fishing-ground,  and  then  had 
lost  them,  as  the  cry  of  the  hound 
sounded  fainter  in  the  distance.  In 
the  early  afternoon  he  had  sought  an 
other  fishing-hole,  almost  opposite  the 
spot  where  Sampson  for  a  second  time 
had  entered  the  stream.  And  here  he 
sat,  with  his  eyes  intent  upon  his  float, 
when  the  trample  of  feet  in  the  cleared 
field  behind  him  caused  him  to  look 
quickly  around. 

The  Virginian  and  his  companions 
were  returning  empty-handed  from  the 
chase.  The  tired  hound  no  longer 
tugged  at  the  leash,  and  Faxon  wearied 
and  thirsty  from  his  long  quest,  was  in 
an  evil  temper.  He  cursed  frequently, 
123 


©ID  2>orset 

and  with  no  apparent  reason,  and  rode 
sullenly  in  front  of  his  party.  As  he 
caught  sight  of  the  fisherman  he  pulled 
in  his  horse  and  stared  at  him.  The 
renegade  negro  Lucas,  discovering  Spi- 
cer  at  the  same  time,  ran  to  Faxon's 
side  and  said  a  few  words  hurriedly  in 
an  undertone ;  then  he  came  to  the 
worm  fence  that  separated  the  field 
from  the  river  bank  and  accosted  Ezra. 

"  Aint  seed  no  one  passin',  has  you, 
Ezry  ? "  he  asked  with  a  shamefaced 
grin. 

"  Seen  you  an'  yer  crowd  this  morn- 
in',''  said  Spicer,  shortly. 

"  Ye  aint  happened  to  see  any  o' 
Major  Norris's  folks  ?  " 

Ezra  shook  his  head. 

"  Wai,  now,  dat  's  extr'odny,"  said 
Lucas,  with  a  glance  towards  Faxon. 
"  We  foun'  tracks  like  dey  was  Carter 
Sampson's  dis  maw'n'  jist  across  from 
dis  yer  place,  an'  den  we  lose  'em — 
done  look  all  day  down  de  rivah  an'  we 
caint  someways  pick  em'  up." 
124 


Bjpiatton  of  B3ra  Spicer 


Faxon,  who  had  got  from  his  horse, 
came  to  the  side  of  the  negro. 

"  Cap'n  Faxon,  dis  yer  's  Mist'  Spisah, 
he  knows  de  rivah,  knows  it  well,  suh." 

"  Reckon  you  'd  like  to  make  a  little 
money,  an'  make  it  right  easy,  my  man?" 
said  Faxon.  Ezra  gazed  straight  before 
him  and  did  not  reply.  He  had  already, 
the  night  before,  been  approached  by 
one  of  Norris's  men,  and,  while  he  had 
refused  to  be  of  active  aid,  the  thought 
of  the  easy  money  had  teased  his 
memory  the  entire  day.  "  All  you  've 
got  to  do,"  said  Faxon  persuasively, 
"  is  to  give  us  a  quiet  tip.  If  he  came 
this  way, — you  saw  him.  Now  just  tell 
me  where  and  when.  I  '11  take  care  of 
the  rest,  and  you  get  well  paid  ;  is  it  a 
bargain  ?  " 

While  he  was  speaking  there  was  a 
sudden  sound  beneath  the  bank  as  of 
an  animal  moving  softly  in  the  still 
water  of  the  hole.  Ezra's  eyes  turned 
swiftly  upon  the  screen  of  bushes  that 
reached  out  its  green  arms  above  the 
125 


©15  Dorset 


water.  His  first  thought  was  that  the 
noise  had  been  made  by  one  of  the 
colony  of  water-rats  that  inhabited  the 
locality,  but  an  instant's  glance  was 
enough  to  show  him  a  man — a  negro, 
Carter  Sampson — the  water  almost  cov 
ering  his  head,  his  chilled  lips  quivering 
piteously  and  his  eyes  gleaming  through 
the  covert  of  leaves,  fixed  upon  Spicer 
with  a  mute,  despairing  appeal. 

"  Well,"  said  Faxon,  "  what  do  you 
say!" 

"  I  aint  seen  him  Cap'n,"  said  Ezra 
huskily ;  "  I  aint  seen  no  one." 

"  Come,  come,"  said  the  other.  "  Of 
course  you  have,  and  you  're  helping 
cheat  a  gentleman  of  his  property  by 
not  lending  a  hand  now — and  talk  of 
seeing  things,  look  at  this  !  "  Ezra's 
eyes,  do  what  he  could,  turned  upon 
the  tempter.  A  bright  piece  of  gold 
representing  more  than  Spicer  ever  at 
any  one  time  had  possessed,  shone  in 
Faxon's  palm.  "  Look  at  that ;  think 
what  that  would  git  ye.  There  's  a 
126 


Bjpiation  of  B3ta  Spicet 


power  of  good  times  and  good  whiskey 
in  that— think  of  it." 

Ezra  had  thought  of  such  a  thing  be 
fore  ;  all  the  long  morning  he  had 
striven  to  convince  himself  that  his 
refusal  of  the  day  before,  to  assist  in 
the  capture  of  the  fugitive  Sampson, 
was  better  than  renewed  credit  and  a 
hearty  welcome  at  the  tavern.  "  So 
help  me  God  ! "  he  said  again,  but  still 
with  his  eyes  upon  the  coin,  "  I  aint 
seen  no  one  at  all." 

The  Captain  withdrew  his  hand 
slowly,  and  suddenly  the  unhappy 
Spicer  struck  a  hasty  bargain  with  the 
devil.  He  could  not,  in  cold  blood 
point  out  the  hidden  negro  trembling 
almost  within  touch  of  him  ;  and  he 
could  not  face  the  disappearance  of 
that  shining  fortune.  "  I  haint  seen 
him,"  he  reiterated,  "  but,"  in  a  lower 
voice  and  with  half  a  nod  towards  the 
water  below  him,  "  you  better  look 
under  the  banks  where  the  deep  holes 
be,  that  's  my  advice."  A  sickening 
127 


Dorset 


sense  made  up  of  disappointment  and 
remorse  came  over  him  as  the  coin  was 
slipped  back  into  the  Captain's  breeches. 
"  Good  advice,"  said  Faxon  shortly  ; 
"  no  market  here  for  advice  though  ; 
reckon  /know  enough  to  hunt  him  out 
if  he  's  around."  He  turned  with  an  im 
patient  curse,  and  with  Lucas  rejoined 
his  party. 

It  was  the  good  fortune  of  the  man 
in  the  water  that  Faxon  had  not  seen 
the  half  nod  which  Spicer  directed 
toward  the  pool,  and  that  annoyance 
at  what  seemed  the  fisherman's  ob 
stinacy  took  the  Captain  in  a  pet  from 
the  spot.  That  nod,  however,  had  not 
escaped  the  fugitive's  eye.  In  a  few 
moments  the  dog  broke  out  into  a  yelp, 
and  the  group  turned  with  renewed 
interest  into  a  patch  of  timber,  and  dis 
appeared.  The  good  angel  had  his 
wing  about  Sampson,  and  the  demon  of 
remorse  sat  side  by  side  with  Ezra 
Spicer  as  he  again  flung  his  line  into 
the  stream.  "  Let  'em  go,"  he  said 
128 


Gbe  Expiation  of  £3ta  Spicet 


aloud,  "  they  '11  git  nothin'  from  me." 
He  gazed  shamefacedly  at  the  screen  of 
bushes  above  the  eddying  water,  then 
looked  quickly  away.  The  eyes  were 
still  there ;  the  glance  was  that  of  a 
frightened  animal,  but  it  was  full,  as 
well,  of  scorn  unutterable.  Spicer 
turned  hot  from  head  to  foot.  That 
glance  was  as  loud  as  a  cry. 

The  yelp  of  the  hound  in  the  dis 
tance  had  changed  to  a  steady  bay. 
Ezra  despite  his  shame  could  not  resist 
a  chuckle.  "  They've  struck  Stanbro's 
Run,  I  guess,"  he  said  again  aloud.  "  I 
seen  fox  tracks  there  this  mornin'.  If 
they  will  use  fox-dogs  they  must  expec' 
to  have  'em  chase  foxes."  The  pursuit 
same  suddenly  into  view,  several  mead 
ows  distant,  the  hound,  escaped  from 
his  leash,  running  free,  and  Faxon  fol 
lowing  alone  at  a  canter.  "They  tell 
me  them  Virginny  folks  is  great  on  fox 
huntin',"  chuckled  Ezra.  "Wai,  he  's 
after  one  now,  I  guess,  an'  there  '11  be 
no  more  man  huntin'  fer  a  spell." 
129 


©ID  2>orset 

He  looked  shyly  towards  the  hidden 
man  as  he  said  this,  and  laughed  in  a 
tentative,  deprecating  way.  The  silence 
of  deep  contempt  brooded  above  the 
pool  and  Spicer's  soul  writhed  within 
him.  He  was  sure  now  that  Sampson 
had  seen  his  attempted  treason.  For  a 
few  minutes  longer  he  strove  to  fish, 
but  the  thought  of  those  scornful  eyes, 
that  he  felt  still  burned  upon  him  from 
the  bush  curtain  below,  seared  his  con 
science  as  with  a  white-hot  iron.  At 
last  he  rose,  gathered  up  his  pail  and 
bait-can,  and  climbed  the  fence  into  the 
cleared  lot.  Then,  as  though  checked  by 
a  sudden  thought,  he  turned,  came  back 
again  to  the  bank,  reseated  himself  and 
began  again  to  fish.  This  time  he  de 
voted  himself  to  his  occupation,  keeping 
his  eyes  resolutely  before  him.  For 
awhile  he  sat  as  though  utterly  unmind 
ful  of  another's  presence.  Suddenly  he 
looked  round  as  though  a  sound  had 
caught  his  ear,  then  jumping  up  he  ran 
to  the  fence.  "  What !  "  he  called,  as 
130 


Bi'ptatfon  of  j£3ra  Sptcer 


though  in  reply  to  a  hail.  "  No  !  no ! 
I  aint  seen  him  yit.  No — he  haint 
showed  himself  'long  here,  sence  ye  left. 
What!  Oh,  all  right!  Tell  the  Cap 
tain  I  Ve  got  my  eye  on  that  coin  yit 
—all  right !  " 

A  crow  on  the  limb  of  a  buttonwood 
took  cognizance  of  this  sudden  clamor 
and  winged  lazily  towards  the  hill ;  a 
woodchuck,  seated  as  nearly  midway 
between  the  two  doors  to  his  burrow  as 
he  was  able  to  estimate,  ran  to  one  en 
trance  and  sat  up,  looking  enquiringly 
towards  the  bank.  The  cattle  in  the  ad 
jacent  meadows  heard  but  paid  no  notice 
to  the  shouts.  No  other  living  creature 
was  visible  and  Faxon  and  his  hench 
men  were  some  two  miles  away  upon 
the  trail  of  a  widely  peripatetic  dog-fox. 

Ezra  returned  to  his  seat  beside  the 
river  and  resumed  fishing.  One  de 
prived  of  the  use  of  his  eyes  would  have 
gathered  that  chance  had  brought  the 
pursuers  back  within  earshot  of  the 
fisherman — that  they  had  again  sought 
131 


©ID  Dorset 

information,  and  had  been  sent  upon 
their  way  in  ignorance. 

That  the  only  human  being  within 
reach  of  Ezra's  monologue  thought 
so  was  presently  apparent.  A  brief 
time  had  elapsed  since  Spicer  last  re 
sumed  his  rod,  when  a  splash  sounded 
beneath  the  bank  and  the  head  and 
shoulders  of  Sampson  appeared  through 
the  bushes.  "  Ezry,"  he  whispered, 
"are  dey  gone?"  His  eyes  had  lost 
their  hostile  glitter  and  were  once  more 
friendly  and  trustful.  Spicer  saw  the 
change  and  his  heart  leaped.  He  had 
only  for  a  moment  yielded  to  the 
tempter,  and  his  feeble  but  kindly  nature 
had  already  suffered  keenly  from  re 
morse.  "All  clear,  Carter — all  clear," 
he  said  briskly,  taking  the  black's  hand 
and  helping  him  up  the  bank.  "  Climb 
up  here  and  lie  out  in  the  sun.  Gosh, 
how  wet  ye  be — got  a  good  right  to  be, 
I  guess — been  in  all  day  !  Crotch  all 
hemlock!  Jest  get  them  clothes  off, 
and  I  '11  wring  em  out." 
132 


fcbe  Bjpiation  of  Ejra  Spicer 


When  Sampson  had  struggled  out  of 
his  wet  garments  the  repentant  Spicer 
wrung  them  as  best  he  could  and  hung 
them  where  the  slanting  sun  could 
reach  them.  Then  he  came  to  the 
negro  who  was  stretched  shivering 
upon  the  grass.  "Be  ye  hungry?" 
said  he  ;  "  here  's  a  little  lunch  I  got  left." 
Sampson  with  eager  thanks  seized  it  and 
ate  ravenously.  "  I  aint  eat  since  las' 
night,"  he  said  finally.  "  An'  I  'se 
feah'd  I  'se  gwine  to  have  chills  an' 
agah."  Then  he  opened  one  hand 
which  he  had  held  closed,  and  displayed 
a  five-dollar  piece.  "  Ezry,"  he  said, 
"  will  ye  go  to  town  for  me,  an'  git  me 
a  blanket  an'  a  shirt — an'  a  little  whiskey 
too  ?  "  Ezra  got  briskly  to  his  feet. 
"  Course  I  will,  Carter,"  he  said,  "  ef  ye 
kin  trust  me  with  all  that  cash." 

He  blushed  suddenly,  for  it  was  a  coin 
of  the  same  denomination  as  that  which 
Faxon  had  shown  him  half  an  hour  be 
fore.  Then,  as  the  negro  hastened  to 
assure  him  of  his  confidence  and  put 
133 


©ID  SJorset 

the  money  into  his  hand,  he  said,  look 
ing  steadfastly  towards  the  hill  and 
avoiding  the  other's  eyes.  "  Ye  did  n't 
think  I  was  goin'  to  tell  on  ye  to  Faxon 
just  now  did  ye,  Carter  ?  "  Sampson 
hesitated  a  moment.  "Yas,  Ezry,"  he 
said  presently,  "  fer  a  while  I  did  ;  yas,  I 
did,  but  praise  de  Lord,  I  was  mistook 
— yas,  praise  de  Lord  !  When  I  heah'd 
you  call  to  de  Cap'n  de  secon'  time, 
den  I  knew  I  was  wrong."  Ezra  had 
climbed  the  worm-fence  and  was  about 
to  start  homewards.  "  Carter,"  he  said, 
still  looking  anywhere  but  in  the 
negro's  face,  "  don't  you  never  fear  fer 
Ezry  Spicer  ;  they  '11  git  nuthin'  from 
me,"  he  went  on,  and  this  time  he  felt 
that  the  truth  was  in  his  heart,  "  an' 
I  '11  be  back  soon  's  dark.  Better  run  up 
and  down  back  of  them  saplings  an'  git 
warm.  Ol'  Faxon  wont  be  back  this 
way  soon.  I  know  that  there  fox  he  's 
a  chasin',  an'  it  lives  in  the  nex' 
county !  " 


134 


tlbe  Expiation  of  Esra  Spicet 


IV. 

It  was  characteristic  of  Ezra  Spicer 
that  he  should  make  the  whiskey  the 
first  of  his  purchases.  Aside  from  the 
ordinary  magnetism  the  threshold  of 
the  Eagle  Tavern  exerted  upon  his  feet 
he  had  a  natural  desire  to  display  him 
self  before  Silsbee  as  a  purchaser,  with 
ready  cash.  He  turned  lovingly  in  his 
pocket  the  coin  which  Sampson  had 
given  him,  and  pictured  old  John 
Silsbee's  surprise  when  he  heard  it 
ring  upon  the  bar.  One  thing  he  had 
determined  upon,  and  that  was  that 
none  of  the  material  benefits  of  wealth 
should  come  to  himself  through  this 
money.  He  felt  that  a  divine  inter 
position  had  saved  him  from  the  basest 
treachery,  and  that  he  owed  utter  and 
complete  reparation  to  Carter  Sampson 
— reparation,  which  from  its  complete 
ness  should,  in  a  way,  approach  ex 
piation. 

He  entered  the  Eagle  Tavern  with 
125 


2>orset 


an  important  air,  in  spite  of  his  humbled 
condition  of  mind,  and  accosted  Silsbee 
as  the  latter  stood  behind  the  bar,  his 
back  towards  the  door. 

"  I  'd  like  a  quart  of  whiskey,  Mr. 
Silsbee,"  he  said  with  an  attempt  at 
nonchalance. 

"  Guess    ye    would,"    said     Silsbee 
dryly,  not  lifting  his   eyes  from  a  book 
in    whose    pages  were  marshalled    an 
array  of  ill-formed  figures  representing 
such    aridity    in    Dorset    as    received 
credit.     "  Guess  ye  most  always  would, 
Ezry."      Spicer  spun  the  coin    nosily 
upon  the  bar  ;  the  tavern-keeper  looked 
quickly  up.     His  eyes  went  from  Ezra's 
face  to  the  gold  piece  and  back  again 
several  times  and  finally   fixed  them 
selves  with  an  angry  glance  upon  the 
man.     "  Wai,"  said  Spicer,  a  trifle  dis 
quieted  by  the  other's  manner,  "  are  ye 
goin'  to  let  me  have  that  whiskey  ?  " 
"  Where  did  ye  git  that  money  ?  " 
"  Wai,  that  's  my  bizniss,  I  guess  !  " 
"  Where  did  ye   git   it,  I  say  ?     See 
136 


Cbe  jEipfatton  ot  Bara  Sptcet 


here,  Ezry  Spicer,  you  hain't  been  takin' 
that  there  Faxon's  money  to  hunt 
down  Sampson  have  ye  ?  Ef  ye  have, 
by  the  Lord  Harry,  I  '11  never '' 

"  Wai,  now  Silsbee,"  said  Spicer  back 
ing  away  from  the  bar,  "  of  course  I 
haint ;  why,  how  you  talk  !  Sampson  's 
been  a  good  friend  to  me  allus ;  of  course 
I  haint  teched  the  Cap'n's  money,  so 
help  me  John  Rogers  !  You  kin  ask 
him  when  he  comes  in  to-night.  Why, 
you  aint  got  no  call  to  holler ;  you  're  a 
boardin*  him !  " 

"  That 's  different,"  said  Silsbee  quick 
ly.  "  Boardin'  folks  is  my  bizniss,  an' 
nigger  huntin'  aint  your'n.  Wai,  I  '11 
take  yer  word  fer  it ;  pooty  coin  !  "  He 
spun  it  into  the  air  and  caught  it  as  he 
spoke,  then  flung  it  into  a  cash  drawer ; 
"I  wisht  I  could  see  a  few  more  of 
'em." 

Ezra  watched  the  decanting  of  the 
whiskey  from  a  keg  behind  the  counter, 
and  in  his  parched  condition  envied  the 
functions  of  the  funnel.  "  Wisht'  my 


©ID  Dorset 

throat  was  that  there  tin  thing,"  he 
muttered  to  himself ;  then  sighing 
deeply  he  crossed  the  room  and  looked 
steadily  out  of  the  rear  window.  He 
knew  that  Silsbee  would  offer  him  a 
horn  of  the  whiskey,  after  filling  the 
bottle,  as  he  usually  did  in  the  case  of 
patrons  who  purchased  in  quantity,  and 
he  could  not  face  refusing  it.  To  his 
quaint  sense  of  right  and  justice  it  had 
seemed  to  him  from  the  first  that  to 
touch  a  drop  of  his  favorite  beverage, 
brought  to  his  reach  by  means  of  the 
money  of  a  man  whom,  for  a  brief  mo 
ment,  he  had  thought  to  betray,  would 
be  almost  unbearable.  It  was  now  an 
impossibility,  since  the  scathing  manner 
of  the  inn-keeper — all  the  more  scathing 
because  adopted  by  a  man  for  whom 
Ezra  himself  had  no  great  respect. 
And  yet  he  felt,  should  he  return  to 
the  side  of  the  bar,  see  the  little  tum 
bler  turn  amber  as  the  Monongahela 
brimmed  it,  and  smell  the  fragrance 
of  the  rye,  that  even  the  impossible 
138 


ttbe  Bjpiation  of  Bsra  Spicet 


might  be  surmounted.  So  he  remained 
by  the  window  watching  abstractedly 
the  life  in  a  paddock  at  the  rear  of  the 
tavern.  "  Ezry,"  said  Silsbee  presently, 
"  here 's  a  drop  of  the  stuff,  just  a  sample 
to  show  ye  it 's  all  right." 

"  No,  I — no,  thank  ye — not  now — no 
— well — say,  Silsbee,"  said  Spicer,  des 
perately  evading  the  temptation,  "  that 
duckwing  game  of  your  'n  has  lost  a 
spur,  haint  he?"  "What? "said  Silsbee, 
who  was  a  keen  sportsman  and  looked 
upon  cock-fighting  as  justifiable  under 
certain  circumstances  ;  if  two  birds  hap 
pened  to  meet  in  Squire  Weston's  cow 
shed,  for  example.  "  Let  's  see  'im." 
He  started  to  leave  the  bar  by  a  little 
door  at  one  end — "  Say,  jest  fetch  my 
bottle  along,  will  ye,"  said  Ezra,  and  in 
a  moment  it  was  in  his  keeping. 
"Where's  that  duckwing?"  said  Sils 
bee.  "  Oh,  why  he  got  both  spurs  all 
right — ye  must  be  gittin'  blind,  Ezra ; 
here  's  yer  change."  Spicer  took  the 
money  and  started  for  the  door. 
139 


2>or0et 


"  What  's  yer  hurry  ?  Ye  haint  had  yer 
drink  yet."  Ezra  made  no  reply,  and 
in  a  moment  the  puzzled  tavern-keeper 
saw  him  go  rapidly  past  the  porch 
towards  the  stores. 


V. 


It  was  not  far  from  nine  o'clock  when 
Ezra  Spicer,  a  bundle  in  his  arms  and  a 
quart  bottle  of  whiskey  bulging  one  of 
his  jacket-pockets,  took  his  way  through 
the  Cooper  meadows  to  the  river.  The 
moon  was  not  yet  atop  the  hill  though 
its  light  already  was  outlining  against 
the  sky  the  pines  that  fringed  the  sum 
mit.  He  walked  rapidly  but  stealthily. 
He  did  not  wish  to  be  seen,  for  he  was 
a  personage  upon  the  river-bank  to 
whom  any  lad  in  Dorset  would  eagerly 
join  himself  in  hope  of  learning  from 
a  master  the  gentle  art  of  night-lines. 
He  had  already,  in  the  early  evening, 
refused  to  explain  to  certain  of  the 
youth  of  Dorset  his  theory  of  eel-traps, 


Cbe  Ejpiation  of  Bsra  Spicer 


for    his    present     mission    demanded 
secrecy. 

As  he  came  to  the  river  a  flare  of  light 
shone  round  a  bend  above  him,  and  half 
a  dozen  boys  with  pronged  spears  and 
torches  came  into  view.  Convinced 
that  the  negro  would  see  the  peril 
which  the  blazing  pine  knots  would  in 
evitably  bring  upon  him  and  retire  into 
the  meadow,  but  resolved,  none  the 
less,  to  take  no  chances,  Ezra  dropped 
his  bundle  and  ran  out  upon  a  spit  of 
shingle  that  stretched  towards  the  mid 
dle  of  the  river.  "  Hello,  Ezry !  " 
came  a  chorus — "  say,  we  're  havin' 
great  luck — (there  he  goes,  Dan,  quick  ! 
Gosh,  he  's  a  big  one !)  Say,  Ezry, 
show  us  where  ye  got  the  big  shiner 
last  week,  will  ye  ?  "  "  No,  I  wont," 
said  Spicer  promptly,  "  unless  ye  come 
out  o'  that  still  water;  ye '11  be  in  my 
eel-lines  in  a  minute.  Come  ashore  an' 
I  '11  tell  ye  where  the  big  shiners  be." 
The  lads  came  splashing  and  scram 
bling  to  the  bank.  "  Now,  then,"  said 
141 


Dorset 


Ezra,  with  the  air  of  a  man  on  his  own 
property,  "jest  ye  cut  across  the 
medder  there,  to  the  bend  where  the 
riffles  be.  Under  the  alders,  where  the 
water  's  deep  an*  swift,  too,  ye  '11  git 
the  big  shiners.  Now  run  along  —  I 
aint  goin'  to  let  ye  see  where  my  night- 
lines  be  —  run  along  !  " 

The  boys  were  midway  of  the  mea 
dow,  heading  eagerly  towards  the  alders, 
when  Ezra  wading  hip-deep  across  the 
quiet  water  reached  the  bank  a  few  rods 
above  the  spot  of  Sampson's  conceal 
ment.  Then  he  went  softly  along  the 
meadow  path  and  called.  In  a  moment 
Sampson  came  forward.  "  Thank  de 
Lord,"  he  said  fervently,  "  thank  de 
Lord,  you  Ve  come  back,  Ezry  !  " 
There  was  something  in  his  tone  that 
to  Spicer's  conscience  indicated  that  a 
fear  had  lingered  in  Sampson's  mind  of 
the  entire  fidelity  of  his  white  friend, 
and  the  fisherman's  face  burned  in  the 
darkness.  He  had  been  proud  of  his 
abstinence  at  the  tavern  —  he  was  now 
142 


Bjpiation  of  J63ta  Spicet 


glad  as  well.  "  Wai,  Carter,"  he  said 
busily,  "  it 's  'bout  time  to  git  a  movin*. 
Here  's  the  blanket  an'  the  flannel  shirt. 
Why,  yer  breeches  is  most  dry  !  An' 
here 's  some  crackers  an'  cheese  I  stole 
from  Liza.  Put  'em  in  yer  pockets  an' 
eat  'em  as  ye  travel.  An'  here  's  the 
whiskey.  Now  ye  aint  got  much  time, 
fer  the  moon  's  comin'  over  ol'  Baldy. 
Why,  man,  yer  shiverin'  yit.  Take  a 
good  drink  o'  this."  The  negro  took  a 
few  swallows  of  the  liquor — then  put 
the  bottle  down.  "  Dey  's  a  pain  in  my 
chest,"  he  said  coughing,  "  an'  de 
roomatiz  in  my  hip  am  pow'ful  bad  to 
night.  I  'se  gwine  rub  me  wiv  de 
whiskey  stid  o'  drinkin'  it."  "  What !  " 
said  Ezra,  almost  sternly — "  rub  yerself 
with  Monongahela?  " — "Deed  I  is, 
Ezry,"  said  Sampson  simply.  "  I  done 
do  dat  befor',  plenty  times." 

"  Wai,  by  gosh,"  said  Spicer  leaning 
against  the  fence,  watching  the  external 
application  of   the  liquor  with  ill-con 
cealed  disapproval,  "  ef  ye  'd  said  what 
us 


Dorset 


ye  wanted  it  fer  I  'd  a'  got  rotgut. 
Why,  Carter,  that  there  's  Mononga- 
hela  !  D'  ye  understand  ?  " 

The  negro  was  too  busy  to  reply  — 
pouring  the  spirits  freely  into  his  broad 
hands,  chafing  his  hip  vigorously  and 
treating  his  chest  in  a  like  manner.  At 
last  he  put  the  bottle  down  with  a 
sigh  of  evident  relief,  and  drew  on  his 
new  flannel  shirt.  "  Now,  Ezry,"  he 
said  presently,  "  if  ye  '11  direct  me  to 
Cap'n  Ball's,  I  '11  be  goin'  along,  an' 
God  be  praise',  an'  thank  ye  !  "  Ezra 
gave  the  required  information,  while 
making  up  the  fugitive's  bundle.  "  It  's 
a  tough  climb,"  said  he,  "  an'  it  's  steep 
—  but  you  '11  git  to  the  wood-road 
all  right,  an'  then  all  's  plain  sailin'. 
Don't  ye  be  afeard  o'  the  wolves  —  they 
aint  hungry,  nor  they  aint  plenty  this 
spring,  an'  take  care  ye  don't  slide  down 
the  roll-way  hill." 

He  slipped  the  bottle  into  the  bundle 
as  he  ended  speaking.  Sampson  stooped 
over,  took  it  out,  saw  there  were  but  a 

U4 


Cbe  Ejpiation  of  Esra  Spicer 


couple  of  inches  left,  and  put  it  by 
Spicer's  side.  "  It  '11  be  broke  in  de 
climb,"  he  said  ;  "  I  don'  counten'ce  de 
use  of  ahjus  licohs  gen'lly,  but  you 
dun  get  wet  crossin'  de  river ;  you  kin 
take  it,  Ezry."  "  I  don't  want  it,"  said 
Spicer,  roughly  and  with  a  sort  of 
desperation.  It  seemed  to  him  that 
temptation,  this  day,  was  relentless  as 
fate.  "  An'  here  's  a  dollar  change  fer 
ye  that  I  forgot,"  he  said,  suddenly 
remembering  its  existence.  Sampson 
reached  out  to  take  it,  then  withdrew 
his  hand.  "  Ezry,"  he  said,  "  dat  's  foh 
you.  Don'  yo'  refuse  me,  for  it 's  balm 
to  mah  conscience.  For,  Ezry,  I  dun 
mak'  a  mistake  an'  errah  'bout  yo'  dis 
mawn'.  I  dun  mak'  a  misjustice.  An' 
when  I  heah'd  yo'  settin'  de  boys  away 
from  de  rivah  an'  seed  yo'  tak'  all  this 
trouble  foh  me — I — yes — it 's  balm  for 
mah  conscience,  deed  it  is."  He  gripped 
Ezra's  hand  suddenly  with  real  feeling, 
climbed  the  fence,  and  was  soon  out  of 
sight  in  the  darkness. 


CID  Dorset 

Ezra  sat  still  for  some  minutes  on  the 
grass  by  the  side  of  the  river.  He  real 
ized  with  renewed  shame  that  he  had 
not  been  strong  enough  vigorously  to 
refuse  the  gifts  pressed  upon  him,  but 
he  told  himself  again  and  again  that  he 
would  not,  come  what  might,  profit  by 
them.  After  a  while  he  rose,  looked 
at  the  whiskey  bottle,  which  seemed 
to  jeer  at  him  from  the  side  of  the 
fence,  then,  with  an  impulse  he  could 
not  restrain,  he  picked  it  up,  clambered 
into  the  pasture  lot  and  took  a  home 
ward  course.  He  was  tired  and  chilled 
— and  there,  in  his  very  hand,  was  pana 
cea  for  weariness  and  cold.  He  had 
already  resisted  the  tempter,  and  the 
tempter  had  not  fled.  After  all,  where 
was  the  harm  ?  One  drink — that 's  all 
that  was  left — and  he  had  not,  really — 
anyhow,  only  for  a  second — meant  harm 
to  Sampson.  Why,  the  negro  would  n't 
grudge  the  drop  of  liquor  even  if  he 
knew  all ! 

With  a  quick  movement  he  lifted  the 
146 


Bjpiation  of  E3ta  Spicec 


flask  to  his  lips,  and  at  the  same  mo 
ment  his  foot  slid  into  the  burrow  of  a 
woodchuck  and  he  fell  prostrate.  When 
he  picked  himself  up  the  bottle  was 
still  in  his  hands  and  the  remnant  of 
whiskey  unspilled.  He  gave  it  but  a 
glance,  then  poured  it  deliberately  into 
the  hole  that  had  thrown  him.  "  It 
wan't  meant  I  should  have  it,"  he  said, 
with  a  superstitious  shake  of  his  head. 
"  You  kin  have  it,  ye  basswood  ground 
hog.  I  hope  ye  '11  take  to  it, — that 's 
the  wust  I  kin  wish  ye — an'  here  's  the 
bottle  fer  yer  family  to  smell!"  He 
dropped  the  empty  flask,  as  a  supple 
ment  to  this  irony,  into  the  burrow  of 
the  slumbering  rodent,  and  again  re 
sumed  his  way,  crossing  the  river  at  the 
shallows,  a  quarter  of  a  mile  distant. 
As  he  neared  the  Eagle  Tavern  he  was 
conscious  once  more  of  a  stress  of  spirit. 
The  Mexican  dollar  given  him  by 
Sampson  burned  in  his  pocket.  As  it 
touched  his  fingers  he  seemed  to  feel 
the  devil  jog  his  elbow.  But  he  was 
147 


©to  Dorset 

stronger  now  than  before  his  last  temp 
tation.  He  passed  the  tavern  door 
with  head  averted,  quickened  his  pace 
into  a  trot,  and  in  a  few  moments 
reached  his  own  abode.  There  he  took 
the  coin  from  his  pocket,  and,  without 
looking  at  it,  carried  it  to  a  corner  of 
the  shabby  room  and  hid  it  beneath  a 
chest.  "  Thank  God  !  "  he  said  sud 
denly  ;  "to-morrer's  the  Sabbath,"  a 
sentiment  new  to  the  lips  of  Ezra 
Spicer,  and  prompted  rather  by  the  rea 
son  that  the  tavern  would  be  closed, 
than  that  the  house  of  worship  would 
be  open.  Then  he  went  to  bed,  but 
not  to  slumber. 

It  was  almost  morning  when  Ezra, 
who  had  not  yet  closed  his  eyes  in 
sleep,  arose  and  went  to  the  chest 
under  which  the  coin  was  hidden.  He 
took  from  within  a  faded,  threadbare 
coat  whose  appearance  betokened  the 
Sunday  garment.  Then  he  stooped, 
picked  up  the  coin  and  slipped  it  em 
phatically  into  a  pocket  in  the  coat, 
148 


Zbe  Expiation  of  E3ra  Spicer 


which  he  laid   across   a   chair.     After 
this  he  went  again  to  bed,  and  slept. 

VII. 

The  congregation  were  dispersing  in 
various  directions  across  the  square, 
chatting  with  that  decorous  cordiality 
and  chastened  but  relieved  expression 
that  follows  a  fifty-minute  sermon.  As 
the  figure  of  Parson  Knowles  came 
from  the  church  door,  Ezra  Spicer,  who 
had  lingered  timidly  about  the  vesti 
bule,  approached  the  minister  and 
taking  off  his  hat  spoke  a  few  words 
falteringly  to  him.  A  knot  of  men  of 
Spicer's  age  and  acquaintance,  who 
were  crossing  the  street  into  the  little 
public  square,  catching  sight  of  the  in 
terview,  paused  and  stared  in  legiti 
mate  surprise.  Ezra  Spicer  had  been 
to  church  for  the  first  time  in  months 
— he  had  given  to  the  collection, 
for  the  first  time  in  years,  and  now  as 
though  to  crown  this  unprecedented  be- 
149 


Dorset 


havior,  he  was  speaking  for  the  first 
time  in  his  life  with  Parson  Knowles. 

As  the  two  passed  slowly  to  the 
street  from  the  church  steps,  and  turned 
in  the  direction  of  the  parsonage,  it 
was  seen  that  Spicer  was  speaking,  to 
judge  from  his  nervous  gesticulation, 
with  more  earnestness  than  fluency,  and 
that  a  curious  expression,  half  pity,  half 
amusement,  dwelt  upon  the  parson's 
face. 

.  .  .  "  So,  sir,"  said  Ezra,  "  I 
could  n't  give  it  back  to  Carter  an' 
tell  what  I  'd  been.  I  s'pose  I  ought  to 
ha'  done  so,  but  I  somehow  could  n't  do 
it.  An'  if  I  'd  spent  it  fer  myself  I  'd 
been  worse  'n  Benedick  Arnol',  an'  so 
I  thought  I  'd  kind  o'  give  it  to  the 
plate." 

"  Well,  Ezra,"  said  the  parson  gently, 
"  it  seems  to  me  you  Ve  atoned  for  what 
little  wrong  —  no,  it  was  more  —  it  was 
more  —  it  was  a  great  wrong  —  but  there 
was  strong  temptation,  and  you  yielded 
but  a  moment  after  all.  I  think  you  Ve 
150 


Gbe  Bjpiation  of  B3ra  Spicet 


atoned,  and  the  money  will  not  be 
missed  by  Sampson.  There  are  plenty 
to  see  that  he  has  all  he  needs  to  take 
him  out  of  danger." 

"  But  you  see,  sir,"  Ezra  began  again, 
then  stopped,  looking  sheepishly  away. 

"Well!" 

"  Why,  you  see,  sir,"  Spicer  went  on 
hurriedly,  "  I  was  goin'  to  tell  you 
before,  but  I  could  n't  make  out  to.  I 
give  that  money  jest  as  if  't  was  reelly 
mine.  I  dropped  it  in  so  's  every  one 
could  see — like  Deacon  Stovey  does." 
He  stopped,  alarmed  at  his  boldness  in 
commenting  upon  the  action  of 
one  of  the  pillars  of  the  church,  and 
looked  shyly  at  the  parson.  Dr. 
Knowles's  back  was  turned  and  he  was 
looking  fixedly  across  Squire  Weston's 
fence  towards  a  barn  at  the  rear  of  the 
yard.  Mrs.  Weston,  from  a  front 
window,  saw,  not  without  a  slight  sense 
of  scandal,  that  the  good  pastor's  face 
was  convulsed  with  most  unsabbath- 
like  silent  laughter.  "  Well,"  said  Par- 
151 


©ID  Dorset 

son  Knowles,  after  a  convulsive  but 
successful  effort  at  self-control,  "  well, 
the  Squire's  old  barn  looks  like  new  in 
its  fresh  coat  of  paint — and  Ezra — I 
think  your  ostentation  will  be  forgiven 
— it 's  very  human — and  it 's  human  to 
err;  why,  deacons  do,"  he  said — with  a 
quick  catch  in  his  breath  and  a  gleam 
in  his  eyes  that  surprised  Spicer — "  and 
just  one  thing  more,  my  boy,"  he  said, 
kindly  laying  his  hand  with  a  gentle 
touch  upon  the  young  man's  shoulder, 
"  it  would  do  no  harm  and  it  might  do 
good,  who  knows,  if  you  came  regular 
ly  to  church,  even  though  you  haven  't 
a  single  copper  for  the  plate."  He 
turned  into  his  gate  as  he  said  this  and 
Ezra,  bowing  reverently,  turned  in  his 
homeward  direction.  As  he  passed  the 
group  of  curious  spectators,  still  stand 
ing  at  the  edge  of  the  square,  various 
pleasantries  assailed  him. 

"  Say,  Ezry,  is   it   a   fac'  that  y'  re 
goin'  to  take  charge  o'  the  new  meetin'- 
house  to  South  Tiberius?" 
152 


Cbe  Expiation  of  Bsra  Spicec 


"Oh,  Ezry,  did  ye  set  parson  right 
about  that  there  ninthly  o'  his  'n?" 

"  Wai,  Ezry,  what  's  yer  hurry  ? 
Eagle  bar  aint  open  Sabbath !  " 

Proof  to  these  shafts  of  humor,  Ezra 
held  silently  upon  his  way.  "  I  never 
seen  the  beat  o'  that,"  said  one  of  the 
group  as  they  strolled  across  the  square. 
"  You  'd  think  he  was  parson's  right 
hand  deacon.  And  did  ye  see  him  drop 
a  dollar  in  the  plate?  "  "That's  what 
s'prizes  me,"  said  another — "  give  a 
hull  dollar !  There  was  a  week's  drink  in 
that  fer  Ezry." — "  Give  it  jist  like  Deac 
on  Stovey,  too,"  said  a  third — "  held  his 
hand  high  an'  dropped  it  so  's  all  could 
see.  Ezry  must  ha'  come  into  prop'ty." 
The  group  paused  in  the  centre  of  the 
square.  A  fourth  who  had  not  yet 
expressed  an  opinion  rubbed  his  chin 
diffidently  and  summed  up  the  entire 
matter.  "  Wai,  ye  can't  never  tell  what 's 
goin'  to  happen !  Goin*  my  way,  Is- 
sachar  ? "  And  the  knot  resolved  itself 
into  its  individual  strands. 


©10  Dorset 

VIII. 

The  following  Sunday  Ezra  Spicer 
was  again  in  church.  Although  his 
appearance  there  had  not  the  galvanic 
effect  it  had  caused  the  previous  Sab 
bath  among  his  acquaintance,  the  sur 
prise  was  distinct,  and  those  who  knew 
him  breathed  heavily  and  settled  them 
selves  with  patience  and  confidence  to 
await  the  relapse.  Their  confidence 
was  not  ill-grounded. 

The  second  Sunday  from  the  first 
herein  described  was  a  sultry,  overcast 
day.  Flies  were  in  the  air — the  wild 
flies  of  the  fields  and  woods.  The  trout 
were  leaping  in  Wolf  Run,  and  no  one 
knew  it  better  than  Ezra  Spicer. 

The  church  bell  was  ringing,  and 
from  out  a  side  street  whither  he  had 
gone  to  visit  an  ailing  friend,  Parson 
Knowles  was  hastening  churchwards. 
Presently  he  was  aware  that  a  familiar 
figure  bearing  rod  and  creel  had  rounded 
a  corner  a  few  rods  away  and  was  com- 


Cbe  Eiptatton  of  £3ta  Spicer 


ing  towards  him.  It  was  Ezra  Spicer, 
and  the  parson  knew  that  in  a  moment 
they  would  meet.  He  saw  the  discom 
fited  fisherman  pause,  turn  round,  and 
linger  miserably  as  though  awaiting 
some  one  who  followed.  Pitying  the 
distress  of  the  backslider,  and  with  an 
instinct  as  refined  as  it  was  compassion 
ate,  he  turned  into  the  first  gateway 
at  hand,  followed  the  sidewalk  to  the 
house,  and  finding  the  door  ajar, 
knocked  and  entered. 

It  was  Deacon  Stovey's  mansion,  and 
that  sainted  man  was  about  to  sally 
forth  to  worship.  The  parson  held  him 
a  moment  in  converse,  and  presently 
Ezra  drifted  furtively  but  swiftly  by. 
The  Deacon  saw  him  through  a  hall 
window.  "  There,"  he  said,  "  I  did  n't 
calkilate  he  yd  keep  up  church  goin' 
long !  Goin'  to  Wolf  Run,  /'//warrant." 
— "  Well,"  said  the  parson  reflectively, 
"you  know  some  people  worship  better 
in  the  fields  and  woods." 

"Yes,  but  parson,"  said  the  deacon 
155 


©ID  2>orset 

irascibly,   "he    need    n't    be  a-fishin', 
too." 

"Why,  St.  Peter  was  a  fisherman," 
said  Parson  Knowles  merrily,  and  the 
reply  silenced  the  deacon,  although  the 
comparison  invoked  was  not  in  all  ways 
a  close  one. 


156 


Case  of  JMncfene^  Golliver. 


157 


Gbe  Case  of  JMncfenep  GoIHver. 


WOLF  RUN  is  not  tributary  to 
the  river.  While  the  other 
brooks  of  the  vicinity  swell  the  voice 
of  the  stream,  piping  treble  of  the  sixth 
age  compared  to  its  once  sonorous  tone, 
Wolf  Run,  from  a  higher  level,  holds  a 
winding  course  to  a  deep  lake  whose 
broad  expanse  terminates  a  valley  to 
the  west  of  Dorset. 

In  this  brook  the  trout  yet  find  an 
abiding  place.  The  undergrowth  is 
still  rank  about  the  feeding  springs, 
and  saw-mills  have  not  defiled  the  cool 
runnels  with  their  piny  refuse.  Under 
alders,  under  willows,  slow  and  deep 
where  elm  and  buttonwood  throw  their 
shade,  swift  and  shallow  through  sunny 
pasture  land,  discoursing  noisily  to  half- 


©15  2>orset 

sunken  fallen  trees  whose  water-logged 
branches  have  bred  dams  and  minia 
ture  cataracts,  Wolf  Run  seeks  the  an 
swer  to  its  twelve-mile  questioning  in 
the  cool  heart  of  the  lake. 

Along  the  brook,  one  midday  in  early 
June,  I  wandered,  now  picking  a  trout 
from  a  quiet  hole  by  aid  of  the  humble 
earthworm,  again  with  "  brown  hackle  " 
tossing  upon  a  riffle  deceiving  some 
more  athletic  fish  as  he  lay  watching 
the  swift  water.  I  thought  in  the 
morning  it  would  rain  ;  at  noon  I  was 
sure  of  it,  and  more  than  casual  ac 
quaintance  with  the  thunder-storm 
brewed  among  the  Pulteney  hills, 
warned  me  that  the  rain,  though  per 
haps  brief,  would  be  drenching.  With 
this  thought  in  mind  I  had  lingered,  as 
the  sky  grew  darker,  in  the  neighbor 
hood  of  an  ancient  gambrel-roofed 
barn,  situated  in  a  pasture  lot  through 
one  corner  of  which  the  brook  ran. 
The  barn  had  been  red  in  its  prime, 
but  stress  of  weather  and  flight  of  time 
160 


ZFbe  Case  of  pfnclmeg  uolltvcr 


had  tarnished,  and  dimmed  and  the 
sides  showed  streaks  and  patches  of 
gray.  The  great  doors  opened  east 
and  west  and  two  sheds  formed  with 
the  main  structure  three  sides  of  a 
quadrangle.  It  was  one  of  those 
mighty  barns  which  have  about  them 
an  air  of  grandeur  as  though  conscious 
of  being  the  trusted  repository  of  the 
riches  inherited  from  man's  natural 
benefactress  and  common  mother. 

There  was  a  house  not  distant.  It 
was  neither  distinctive  nor  impressive, 
and  I  felt  sure  its  owner  in  describing 
his  premises  would  say,  "  The  house  is 
not  far  from  the  barn." 

While  making  a  mental  inventory  of 
the  neighborhood  a  flash,  followed  by  a 
rumble,  caused  me  to  reel  hastily  in, 
adjust  my  creel  and  scramble  over  the 
worm-fence  which  separated  me  from 
the  pasture  lot.  I  made  quick  way  to 
the  barn  and  reached  it  just  as  the  first 
big  drops  rattled  upon  its  roof. 

The  broad  east  door  was  wide  open, 
161 


©ID  2>orset 

showing  against  a  dusky  background,  a 
fanning-machine,  a  democrat  wagon 
and  a  row  of  portly  oat  sacks.  Upon 
these  sacks  sat  two  young  men,  either 
of  whom  might  have  been  twenty-five 
years  of  age,  while  upon  a  keg  and  near 
the  wagon  whose  wheels  were  several 
inches  deep  in  hay-dust,  was  seated  an 
oldish  man  in  faded  overalls.  A  man 
of  spare  but  powerful  frame  and  a 
countenance  at  once  weather-beaten, 
wrinkled  and  youthful.  He  was  en 
gaged  in  the  tranquilizing  business  of 
whittling  a  potato,  and  favoring  his 
occupation  with  an  accompaniment  of 
discourse. 

As  I  approached  the  barn-door,  dis 
turbing  a  gathering  of  fowls  that  had 
clustered  about  it  and  that  commented 
variously  upon  my  sudden  appearance, 
the  man  with  the  potato  paused  in  the 
midst  of  his  remarks.  He  looked  at 
me  a  moment  amiably  but  impassively 
as  though  I  were  an  ordinary  conse 
quence  of  a  thunder-shower,  then  re- 
162 


Cbe  Case  of  pincfcnes  Collivet 


sumed  the  interrupted  flow  of  his 
words.  His  face,  I  fancied,  showed 
signs  of  satisfaction  at  the  increase  in 
his  audience,  for  I  at  once  settled  my 
self  to  listen,  taking  a  place  beside  the 
younger  men  who  with  friendly  glances 
made  room  for  me. 

"  So  I  don't  never  vote  the  demer- 
cratic  ticket  unless," — here  the  speaker 
paused  for  at  least  a  quarter  of  a  minute, 
looking  with  mild  curiosity  into  my 
creel,  the  cover  of  which  had  flapped 
open — "  unless  I  happen  to  take  a  mind 
to." 

At  this  proof  of  conversational  strat 
agem,  the  original  auditors  laughed 
with  a  sort  of  diffident  enjoyment  and 
looked  to  me  for  encouragment.  I  was 
aware  of  the  presence  of  one  of  those 
characters  found  upon  American  coun 
trysides  who  unite  in  equal  proportions 
the  virtues  of  sage,  philosopher,  and  hu 
morist,  and  I  gave  token  of  my  appre 
ciation. 

"  Yes,"  said  the  whittler,  harking  back 
163 


<S>1&  Dorset 

to  a  story  which  I  had  not  heard  and 
did  not  understand,  but  which  had 
seemed  to  its  narrator  of  sufficient 
merit  to  entitle  it  to  a  semi-resuscita 
tion, — "  Yes,"  he  repeated,  "  as  we  come 
to  the  ditch,  there  sat  the  gen'er'l  an' 
his  staff.  They  was  to  wind  of  us,  an'  I 
sez  to  the  boys,  '  Boys  '  I  sez,  '  they 's  a 
still  around  here  somewhar',  sez  I." 
Again  the  young  rustics  laughed,  and  I 
laughed  too. 

"  You  were  in  the  war  ?  "  I  asked 
presently,  as  the  speaker  was  silent  a 
moment  over  his  whittling. 

"  Wai,  yes,  fer  a  little  spell  I  was," 
he  answered  ;  "  went  out  with  Cap'n 
John  Denison's  Comp'ny — know  him? 
Wai,  no ;  you  could  n'  hardly  know 
him.  He  was  killed,  to  Gaines  Mills, 
when  you  must  ha'  been  perty 
young." 

"  Yes,"  I  answered,  "  I  was  pretty 
young  then.  John  Denison,  though, 
was  my  mother's  cousin." 

"  Was,  hay  !    Then  who  be  you  ?  " 
164 


3be  Case  of  pmcfcncs 


This  interrogation,  peremptory  as  it 
may  appear  in  print,  in  the  slow  drawl 
of  the  old  farmer  was  perfectly  civil, 
and  I  answered  it  as  fully  as  seemed 
necessary. 

"  Why,  I  knew  yer  pa  when  he  was 
younger  'n  you  be  now.  Knowed  him 
'fore  you  did,  I  guess."  The  audience, 
myself  included,  acknowledged  the 
drollery. 

"Yes  sir;  I  knew  yer  pa  'fore  he 
went  to  the  city.  He  was  a  handsome 
young  feller  as  you  want  to  see.  Some 
how  you  don't  look  like  yer  pa  to  me." 

This  observation  following  so  closely 
upon  the  tribute  to  my  father's  comeli 
ness  embodied  a  comment  unfavorable 
but  unintentional,  and  speaker  and  au 
dience  were  aware  of  it.  Amusement 
was  predominant  with  me;  the  two 
young  farmers  were  also  suppressing 
smiles,  whilst  the  older  man  was  obvi 
ously  concerned  at  what  he  had  uncon 
sciously  implied  and  without  looking 
up  redoubled  his  attention  to  the  po- 
165 


H>orset 


tato,  now  about  the  size  of  a  pigeon's 

egg- 

"  Wai,"  he  said  presently,  "  I  s'pose 
likely  you  took  after  yer  ma." 

At  this  sad  attempt  at  bettering 
matters  I  laughed  outright,  to  the  relief 
of  the  two  younger  men  who  heartily 
joined.  Had  the  cause  of  this  mirth 
been  an  Irishman  he  would  even  then 
have  extricated  himself  from  his  tangle, 
but  being  a  Pulteney  County  Yankee, 
he  merely  reddened,  smiled  sheepishly, 
and  getting  up,  strolled  to  the  door 
and  gazed  upon  the  weather. 

"  Rainin'  agin,"  he  said  presently, 
willing  to  change  the  topic  but  averse 
to  losing  control  of  the  conversation. 
"  '  Rainin'  agin  like  a  dern  fool,'  as  ole 
Deacon  Adams  said  when  it  showered 
in  hayin'.  Wai,  wal,  so  you  're  the 
Judge's  son,  be  ye  ?  "  Having  rounded 
the  troublesome  corner  he  was  again 
upon  the  original  track. 

"  Why,  I  was  on  the  jury  'n  the  first 
case,  pretty  nigh,  yer  pa  ever  tried.  He 
1  66 


Case  of  pincfcnes  (Tollivct 


wa'n't  so  old  as  Lemuel  there,  by  four 
year.  Gosh  all  hemlock,  thet  was  a 
dern  amusin'  case."  Here  the  speaker 
paused  and  turning  his  eyes  full  of 
reminiscent  dreaminess  upon  my  face 
inquired  with  perfect  recklessness  of  the 
effect  of  double  negatives.  "  Didn't  he 
never  tell  ye  'bout  the  '  Pink  Tolliver ' 
law  case  ?  " 

I  replied  that  while  I  recalled  some 
mention  by  my  father  of  complications 
in  the  life  of  one  Pinckney  Tolliver,  the 
matter  was  not  familiar  to  me,  and  that 
I  was  eager  to  hear  the  details  from 
one  who  doubtless  knew  them  well,  and 
had  weighed  them  with  the  impartiality 
of  a  juror.  I  was  so  urgent  in  my  re 
quest  that  after  a  moment  spent  in 
gazing  pensively  upon  the  barn-floor 
and  choking  back  what  was  evidently  a 
rising  tide  of  merriment,  he  complied. 

"You  see,"  he  began,  "  ole  Pink  Tol 
liver,  Susan's  husband,  was  livin'  clost 
to  Elder  Rice's  back  line.  (You  know 
the  ole  Rice  house  in  Dorset  ?)  Wai, 
167 


Dorset 


just  to  rear  was  a  lane  full  of  colored 
folks,  an'  they  was  plenty  in  Dorset 
forty  year  back.  Next  to  Elder  Rice 
Cap'n  Weston  had  his  house  an'  printin* 
office  to  once.  Now  they  wa'n't  no 
nicer  woman,  'cordin  to  my  notion,  in 
all  Dorset,  black  or  white,  than  Aunt 
Susan  Tolliver,  but  Pink  was  never 
himself  out  o'  jail.  First  place  he  was 
allus  drunk,  an'  nex'  place  it  didn't  seem 
natch'l  to  be  loose.  Pink  was  a  thief  as 
well  as  a  sot  ;  anyhow  he  stole  chickens. 
Gen'u'lly  he  went  up  town  fer  his 
thievin'  —  had  too  much  sense  to  steal 
clost  to  home  ;  an'  then  the  Rices  an' 
ole  Cap'n  Weston  had  been  good  to 
Susan,  an'  I  s'pose  Pink  had  a  kind  o' 
colored  sense  o'  gratitude,  or,  mebbe 
Susan  made  him  keep  his  hands  off 
their  fowls.  He  had  once  got  away 
with  one  o'  Cap'n  Weston's  duckwing 
games,  but  he  swore  he  jess  borryed  it 
fer  a  fight  an'  the  chicken  got  hurt  ac 
cidentally  an'  died,  an'  he  s'posed  the 
Cap'n  would't  care  fer  the  corpse,  so 
168 


«Jbc  Caee  of  flMnchncp  Collivcr 


the  Tollivers  eat  him.  That  was  Pink's 
account,  I  reck'lect.  Wai,  one  night 
Pink  got  tangle-foot  enough  to  kind  o' 
mix  him  up  an'  make  him  fergetful,  an' 
nex'  day  two  fine  dominicks  ole  Mis' 
Rice  was  braggin'  'bout  puttin'  in  the 
fair,  was  missin'.  'Spishun  an'  foot 
prints  an'  feathers  an'  word  o'  mouth  o' 
young  Joe  Macy  who  seen  Pink  carry- 
in'  'em  over  Elder's  fence,  pinted  pretty 
straight  to  the  Tolliver  shanty.  Ole 
Elder  was  kind  o'  pervoked — ye  see  he 
jess  ben  helpin'  Pink  an'  his  fam'ly 
through  a  bad  winter, — an'  he  allowed 
Pink  could  go  up  for  a  few  months  an' 
live  on  the  county.  So  they  'rested 
him  an'  brought  him  to  trial.  I  d'  know 
now  why  Pink  didn't  plead  guilty, 
'nless  't  was  he  felt  sure  o'  conviction 
an*  kind  o'  enjoyed  bein'  notorious ; 
but  he  pleaded  not  guilty  an'  Judge 
Caldwell,  Pink  havin'  no  cash  fer  law 
yers,  appointed  yer  pa  to  defend  him. 
"  '  No  money  in  it  my  young  friend,' 
sez  the  Judge,  '  but  they  is  some  glory, 
169 


©ID  Dorset 

et  you  acquit  Pinckney  in  the  face  of 
appearances,'  sez  he,  an'  Pink  he  grinned 
all  over,  jest  tickled  with  his  promi 
nence. 

"  Wai,  yer  pa  was  younger  'n  what  he 
is  now,  leastways  'cording  to  my  figur- 
in',  an'  he  took  up  the  case  fer  all  it  was 
worth.  I  was  on  the  jury  an'  so  was 
ole  Cap'n  Weston.  'Bijah  Sears  from 
South  Tiberius-way  was  prosecutin' 
attorney  an'  he  said  lots  'bout  yer  pa 
bein'  so  young.  It  was,  '  Oh,  baby,  do 
ye  think  so  ?  '  an'  '  Is  that  so,  baby  ? ' 
an',  '  Why,  baby,  I  was  practisin'  law 
when  you  was  cuttin'  teeth,  an'  yehaint 
cut  'em  all  yet,  I  guess' — an*  all  sich 
talk.  'T  want  right — I  said  so  to  Cap'n 
Weston,  an*  ole  Cap'n  he  sez  to  me: 
'  You  hold  your  hosses,  Sam,'  he  sez ; 
'  the  boy  kin  wrastle  him,  leave  him 
alone.' 

"  Wai,  yer  pa  was  pretty  mad,  an' 

when  he  got  good  an'   goin',  he  give 

'Bijah  Jessy,  an'  he  give  it  to  him  hot. 

'  Mebbe  I  haint  cut  all  my  teeth  yit,'  sez 

170 


Case  of  pinchncg  Golliver 


he.  '  I'm  only  twenty-one  I  admit,'  sez 
he,  '  but,'  he  sez,  '  what  does  this  here 
jury  think  of  a  man  what  's  got  to  be 
sixty  year  old  an'  more  an'  haint  never 
cut  a  wisdom  tooth  yit — no,  nor  aint 
like  to,  to  jedge  from  appearances,'  sez 
he." 

Here  the  narrator  paused  a  moment, 
slapping  his  knee  and  laughing  with  a 
laugh  that  seemed  to  begin  upon  the 
exterior  of  his  physiognomy  and  work 
slowly  in.  The  last  chuckle  swallowed, 
and  a  bit  of  encouragment  derived  from 
his  amused  and  interested  audience,  he 
went  on. 

"Wall,  that  took  the  crowd,  an' 
Pink  he  laffed  too, — the  ole  nigger 
allus  liked  the  boys, — an'  Marcellus 
Jones  from  Mileyville,  who  was  into 
court  that  day,  jess  lay  back  on  the 
winder-sill  an'  laffed  an'  cussed — they 
called  him  swearin*  Marce  Jones — till 
the  Judge  said  he  'd  clear  the  court. 
'  Good  fer  baby !  '  says  Marce,  an* 
cussed  an'  ripped  an'  cussed,  'baby  kin 
17* 


2>orset 


wrastle  ye,  'Bijy  Sears  !  '  Yes,  sir,  the 
Judge  had  to  stop  him,  an'  the  Judge 
he  was  laffin'  too.  'Gentlemen,'  sez  he 
—  I  allus  liked  Judge  Caldwell's  way  o' 
speakin'  —  '  Gentlemen,  this  here  case 
don't  rest  on  priority  o'  practice,  or 
sen'ority  of  age,'  sez  he,  an'  yer  pa  went 
on.  I  can't  think  of  all  he  said,  ner 
what  'Bijy  said  back,  but  yer  pa  made 
a  hot  fight.  Still  the  evidence  was  too 
heavy  fer  Pink. 

"  '  The  feathers  might  ha'  blown  into 
the  Tolliver  yard,  as  baby  sez,'  sez 
'Bijy,  '  but  there  haint  no  wind  in  Pul- 
teney  County  high  'nuff  to  blow  into 
Mr.  Rice's  yard  footprints  the  size  o' 
them  I  measured  Monday  last,  leadin' 
from  the  premises  o'  the  plaintiff's  fowls 
to  the  defendant's  fence.  Them  foot 
prints  was  Pinckney  Tolliver's,  gentle 
men  o'  the  jury,  an'  they  can't  be 
matched  fer  size  'tween  here  an'  the 
Pennsylvany  line.' 

"  Wall,  this  was  a  pint  fer  'Bijy's  side, 
an'  every  one,  purty  nigh,  laffed,  an' 
172 


Cbe  Case  of  pfncfeneg  Golliver 


the  hull  case  was  spiled  by  Pink,  who 
was  three  parts  drunk,  sayin'  '  dat  's  so 
boss,  dat  's  so  ; '  he  was  so  dern  puffed 
up  by  what  'Bijy  sez.  Yer  pa,  he  never 
would  ha'  taken  the  case  only  the 
judge  appinted  him,  tried  to  shet  Tolli- 
ver  up,  but  the  cat  was  loose  an'  they 
wan't  no  need  o'  young  Joe  Macy's 
testimony  hardly  at  all ;  an'  the  case 
went  to  the  jury. 

"  Wai,  Cap'n  Weston  allus  had  a  likin' 
fer  yer  pa — used  to  get  him  to  write 
editorials  fer  his  paper,  The  Dorset  Pa 
triot,  when  he  was  n't  to  home  himself, 
an*  he  'd  listened  to  the  summin'  up 
fer  the  defense,  all  ears.  Every  now 
an'  then  he  'd  chuckle  or  grunt,  never 
takin'  his  eyes  off  yer  pa.  When  we 
got  into  the  jury-room  Caleb  Cooper, 
ole  Major's  nephew,  sez,  '  I  guess  they 
aint  no  doubt  'bout  Pink's  guilt.' 

"  1  sez  '  no,'  an'  most  the  others  sez 
'  guess  not '  or  somethin',  meanin'  the 
same.     Ole  Cap'n  Weston  spoke  up — 
'  I  dunnoj  he  sez,  '  I  dunno! 
173 


Dorset 


"'You  dunno?'  says  Caleb.  'Did 
ye  follow  the  trial  ?  '  He  was  a  whig 
an'  Cap'n  was  a  demercrat  an'  they 
wan't  no  love  lost  'tween  'em. 

"  '  Yes  I  did,'  says  Cap'n,  '  yes  I  did 
sir,'  sez  he,  'an'  /did  n't  find  no  time 
fer  nappin,'  sez  he.  Wai,  Caleb  had 
kind  o'  closed  his  eyes  a  spell  an'  so  he 
shet  up,  but  Deacon  Edwards  sez  : 

"  '  W'y  Cyrus,'  he  sez,  '  you  know 
Pink's  a  thievin'  vagabond  anyhow  ;  he 
stole  your  chickins  once.  I  hearn  ye 
tell  on  it.' 

"  '  Stole  one  chickin*  from  me,  to  be 
exact,'  says  ole  Cap'n,  '  one  duckwing 
game  rooster  to  match  agin  Cato  Wat 
son's  brown  red.  'T  want  a  good  fight  ; 
the  duckwing  run,  after  a  little,  an'  I 
disowned  him,  leastways  I  would  ef  I  'd 
known  he  showed  mongrel  ;  an'  Pink 
was  welcome  to  him. 

"  Wai,  the  deacon  did  n't  see  jess  how 
the  duckwing  showin'  yaller  dog  went 
to  provin'  Pink  was  n't  a  thief  an'  he 
said  so,  but  ole  Cap'n  he  kept  on  argy- 


Cbc  Case  of  pincfencv!  vlollivct 


fyin'  and  talkin'.  Bime-by  he  got  Selah 
Ruggles  an'  Alpheus  Taylor  onto  a 
religious  discussion  an'  half  the  jury 
takin'  sides,  an*  when  that  blew  over 
an'  we  was  takin'  a  ballot  'bout  half- 
past  six  in  the  evenin,'  he  said  he 
'bleeved  some  of  the  evidence  wa'n't 
properly  interduced. 

"  '  Wa'n't,  hay  ?  '  says  Caleb  Cooper, 
'  wal,  I  'm  a  good  'nuff  lawyer  to  know 
it  was,  every  word  of  it  sir/  sez  he. 

" '  You  're  a  lawyer,  be  ye,'  sez 
Cap'n — '  You  're  a  lawyer,  hay  ?  Wal,  I 
thought  you  called  yourself  an  editor, 
but  ef  you  're  a  lawyer  what  call  have 
you  sittin'  on  a  jury  ? '  sez  he. 

" '  I  said  lawyer  enough,  sir,'  sez 
Caleb. 

"  '  Yes,'  sez  Cap'n,  '  an'  you  've  said 
most  everything  enough,  an'  perhaps  a 
leetle  mite  too  much,  'specially  in  yer 
newspaper,'  sez  he. 

"  Wal  this  het  up  Caleb,  an'  first  we 
knew  we  had  all  the  learnin'  from 
the  back  files  o'  the  Patriot  an'  the 
175 


Old  Dorset 

Freeman  fer  six  months  an*  mebbe 
a  year.  It  was  eight  o'clock  'fore  we 
got  another  ballot  an'  Cap'n  Weston 
voted  '  no  '  agin,  an'  the  only  '  no,' 
like  it  was  before.  We  all  kep'  at  him 
fer  a  spell  an*  he  promised  to  think  the 
hull  thing  over  ef  we  'd  leave  him  in 
peace,  so  he  went  into  a  corner  an' 
smoked  an'  the  rest  of  us  sat  round  an' 
felt  hungry,  'cept  Selah  Ruggles  an' 
Alpheus.  They  dug  up  the  hatchet 
agin  an'  we  might  ha'  known  what  'ud 
come  of  it.  'Bout  nine  o'clock  we  asked 
Cap'n  ef  his  mind  wan  't  satisfied  an'  he 
sez,  '  how  kin  I  think  with  Selah  an' 
elder  Taylor,  talkin',  talkin'  brilliantly 
too,'  he  sez,  chucklin'  to  himself,  '  on 
subjec's  so  much  more  important.  An' 
we  got  no  ballot. 

"  Wai  'bout  nine-thirty  he  riz  up  an' 
sez  to  Alpheus  that  a  great  light  had 
come  upon  his  mind  an'  he  believed 
Pink  really  stole  them  dominick  pullets. 

"  It  did  n't  take  long  to  get  a-ballotin', 
an'  'bout  ten,  the  court-house  bell  rang 
176 


Case  of  pincfcneB  tTolItver 


to  say  we  had  reached  a  verdic'.  They 
was  quite  a  crowd  come  in.  Everyone 
expected  a  verdic'  in  half  an  hour,  an' 
when  we  stayed  out  till  ten,  from  half- 
past  five  in  the  afternoon,  they  was  a 
lot  who  felt  kind  o'  curious. 

"  I  see  yer  pa  come  in.  He  looked 
contented,  's  much  's  to  say,  '  fer  an 
open  an'  shet  thing  I  give  'em  some- 
thin'  to  chaw  on.'  An'  there  was  'Bijy 
a-lookin'  a  little  anxious,  an'  Pink  too, 
an'  he  seemed  kind  o'  scared  an'  disap- 
pinted  ;  you  see  he  sot  store  by  jail  life, 
Pink  did. 

"  Of  course  the  verdic'  suited  every 
one,  Tolliver,  most  of  all,  an'  the  crowd 
bust  up.  I  see  Cap'n  Weston  shake 
hands  with  yer  pa  an'  walk  off  with 
him ;  they  was  laffin'  together.  Next 
day  I  met  the  Cap'n  an'  I  sez, '  Cap'n,' 
I  sez,  '  you  an'  me  's  both  demercrats 
an'  I  take  yer  newspaper,  an'  I  want 
you  to  do  me  a  favor,  I  sez.' 

"  '  Wai,  Sam,'  sez  he,  '  what  is  it  ?  ' 

" '  Wai,'    I    sez,    '  you     pass    fer    a 


©ID  Dorset 

pretty  smart  man.  What  'n  the  land's 
name  made  ye  doubt  Pink  took  them 
pullets,  fer  five  long  dry  hours,'  sez  I. 

"  '  Doubt  it,'  sez  he,  '  I  never  doubted 
it ;  why  Sam,'  sez  he,  '  I  seen  him  as 
well  as  Joe  Macy.  I  was  up  with  my 
youngest  child  an'  heard  the  noise,  an' 
seen  Pink  climb  the  fence  with  them 
dominicks.  But  I  wan't  goin'  to  have 
that  boy  beat  in  his  fust  case  without  a 
big  fight  in  the  jury-room,'  sez  he. 
'  He  's  as  likely  a  young  man  as  you 
want  to  see  anywhere,  an'  I  wan't  goin' 
to  have  no  lightnin'  verdic'  mortifyin' 
him  right  at  the  start.'  " 

The  narrator  paused.  His  anecdote 
was  obviously  at  an  end  and  I  showed 
due  appreciation  of  his  reminiscent 
gifts.  The  sun  was  shining  once  more, 
and  bidding  good-day  to  the  young 
countrymen,  who  had,  from  being  quite 
in  touch  with  me,  during  the  foregoing 
narration,  relapsed  into  diffidence  again, 
I  took  my  rod  and  creel  and  left  the 
shelter  of  the  barn.  As  I  passed  the 
178 


Cbe  Case  of  ptncfcnee  Solltver 


threshold,  my  friend  the  philosopho- 
humorist,  who  had  come  to  the  door  of 
the  barn,  accosted  me  : 

"  See  that  stump-field  yonder  ? 
Wai,  I  took  'bout  thirty-five  nice  trout 
down  there,  one  Sabbath  mornin'  in 
'53,  'fore  breakfast.  I  don't  know  if 
they  be  any  there  now.  I  s'pose  I 
would  n't  fish  now  on  the  Sabbath  day 
unless,"  here  he  paused  and  looked 
dreamily  at  me  for  almost  a  quarter  of 
a  minute,  "  unless  I  was  sure  o'  gettin' 
a  nice  mess." 


179 


%ast  of  tbe  <§>K>  Cburcb. 


181 


Gbe  Xast  of  tbe  ©R>  Cburclx 


THE  doors  of  the  old  church  stood 
wide  open  though  the  day  was 
not  the  Sabbath.  The  morning  wind, 
still  cool  and  grateful  to  trees  rusty  with 
the  dust  of  midsummer,  sent  reckless 
draughts  chasing  each  other  along  the 
aisles,  and  whirling  the  leaves  of  a  few 
tattered  hymnals,  not  yet  taken  from 
the  church.  A  light  dust  came  from 
the  open  windows  occasioned  by  the 
removal  of  the  pews,  as  one  by  one 
these  time-honored  seats  were  brought 
into  the  open  air  and  huddled  together 
in  front  of  the  doors. 

For  the  "old  church"  of  Dorset  was 
to  be  levelled  to  the  ground. 

Seventy  years  it  had  stood,  on  the 
183 


©Id  Dorset 

south  side  of  the  shady  village  square, 
fronting  one  of  the  main  streets,  gazing 
benignly  upon  the  growth  of  the  town 
whose  sons  were,  many  of  them,  its 
god-children.  For  a  long  time  it  had 
been  the  only  place  of  worship  in  Dor 
set,  and  as  such  had  been  sufficient  unto 
the  needs  of  the  townspeople.  But 
with  the  railroad  came  increase  in  popu 
lation,  and  diversity  in  sect ;  several 
spires  now  peered  from  among  the 
village  elms  and  maples,  and  the  con 
gregation  of  the  old  church  voted  al 
most  unanimously,  to  pull  down  and 
build  greater. 

The  word  unanimously  might  have 
been  proper,  had  it  not  been  for  the 
stubborn  opposition  of  Major  Cooper. 
He  regarded  the  enterprise  as  conceived 
in  folly,  and  ending  in  sacrilege.  He 
was  a  remnant  of  old  Dorset.  He  had 
seen  the  town  enter  and  emerge  from 
its  teens,  and  he  was  willing  and  indeed 
desirous  as  he  stated  in  his  elaborate 
minority  report,  delivered  orally  upon 
184 


Gbe  TLast  of  tbe  CIS  Cburcb 


every  street  corner  and  at  frequent  in 
tervals,  to  rescue  the  younger  genera 
tion  from  such  a  piece  of  irreverence. 
The  other  members  of  the  congrega 
tion  refused,  however,  to  be  saved  by 
the  remnant,  and  it  so  happened  that  on 
a  morning  of  middle  August  the  noise  of 
shingles  wrenched  from  their  place,  and 
clattering  to  the  ground,  disturbed  the 
usually  quiet  neighborhood  of  the  old 
church  ;  attracting,  as  the  day  wore  on, 
a  knot  of  idle  and  curious  townspeople. 

At  ten  o'clock  Major  Cooper  came 
into  view  from  the  direction  of  the 
"  Eagle  "  tavern. 

"  Came  into  view "  is  strictly  the 
phrase  to  employ  regarding  the  advent 
of  Major  Cooper.  He  never  broke 
upon  the  sight  with  the  unseemly  pre 
cipitation  of  a  man  who  had  business 
and  no  rheumatism.  His  approach  was 
always  gradual  and  full  of  the  benignity 
of  Indian  Summer.  Upon  this  particu 
lar  morning  his  coming  was  attended  by 
an  air  of  unusual  dignity,  and  the  spec- 
185 


Borsct 


tators  left  staring  at  the  dismantlement 
of  the  church  to  look  at  the  white-haired 
old  man  as  he  advanced.  His  opposi 
tion  to  the  new  church  was  well  known, 
and  so  vigorously  had  he  voiced  his 
sentiments,  that  it  seemed  not  improba 
ble  that  some  new  burst  of  eloquence 
might  add  a  zest  to  the  morning's  enter 
tainment. 

But  Major  Cooper  was  beyond  words. 
Heeding  none  of  the  greetings  offered 
him  as  he  entered  the  group  of  idlers, 
he  went  to  the  array  of  pews  and  looked 
long  and  earnestly  among  them.  At 
last  he  laid  hold  of  one,  upon  whose 
back  some  boy's  work,  an  initial  or 
monogram,  caught  his  eye.  It  was  his 
own  pew,  and  bore  the  handiwork  of 
the  first  Barlow  knife  of  his  boyhood. 
With  much  exertion  the  old  man 
dragged  the  heavy  seat  from  out  the 
huddle  of  pews  to  the  edge  of  the  street. 
One  of  the  onlookers  came  forward 
and  offered  a  hand. 

"  Don't  you  touch  it,  don't  you  touch 
186 


Cbe  Xast  of  tbe  ©ID  Cburcb 


it,  Balcom,"  panted  the  Major  angrily, 
"you  can  run  the  church,  you  boys. 
I  '11  run  my  pew  for  a  while  longer,  any 
way." 

Balcom  retired  in  some  confusion 
and  Major  Cooper  slowly  and  amid 
much  dust  dragged  his  old  pew  across 
the  street  and  under  the  shade  of  a 
maple.  Then  he  sat  down  in  it,  wedged 
himself  into  a  corner,  and  wiping  his 
face  of  the  sweat  of  unusual  exertion, 
proceeded  to  contemplate  the  work  of 
destruction. 

In  the  old  church,  with  its  white 
washed  pillars,  its  gleaming  steeple,  its 
green  blinds  and  square-paned  windows, 
were  for  him  the  peculiarly  consecrated 
associations  of  a  life-time.  There  he 
had  been  baptized,  there,  too,  had  his 
brothers  and  sisters  been  named  ;  from 
the  pulpit  were  uttered  the  words  of  his 
father's  funeral  sermon,  and  before  that 
pulpit  he  himself  would  have  been  mar 
ried.  Old  bachelor  though  he  was,  he 
could  not  forget  what  ought  to  have 
187 


OID  Dorset 

been,  what  might  have  been,  and  where 
it  would  have  been.  Baptisms,  mar 
riages,  deaths,  the  recollections  that 
stand  aloof  and  peculiar  in  the  land  of 
memory,  were  represented  to  him  by 
the  old  church. 

The  shingles,  split  and  wrenched 
from  the  nails,  rattled  noisily  upon  the 
ground.  The  Major  gripped  his  cane 
in  gusty  indignation.  It  seemed  to  him 
as  though  some  one  were  tearing  leaves 
from  his  family  Bible. 

Now  during  this  time  the  only  other 
individual  to  whom  the  razing  of  the 
church  was  a  particular  offense,  was 
seated  by  the  river  a  quarter  of  a  mile 
away,  upon  a  green  rib  of  bank,  angling 
pensively.  His  location  commanded 
an  excellent  view  of  the  old  church,  and 
from  time  to  time  Ezra  gazed  fixedly 
in  its  direction.  Each  glance  was  dis 
approved  by  a  slow  shake  of  the  head. 

It  was  not  usual  with  Ezra  Spicer  to 
fish  "  Denison's  Hole  "  of  a  week  day. 
It  was  his  Sunday  fishing-ground.  For 
1 88 


last  of  tbe  ©ID  Cburcb 


many  years  it  had  been  to  the  old  man's 
quaint  mind  an  alleviation  of  conscience 
to  fish  within  sight  of  the  church.  Some 
times  through  its  open  windows,  on  a 
favoring  wind,  the  "  Portuguese  "  hymn 
or  "  Federal  Street "  drifted  across  Coop 
er's  meadows  and  joined  the  natural 
music  of  the  Connedaga.  On  Sundays, 
too,  Ezra  condemned  himself  to  fish  for 
mullets,  this  fish  being  particularly  diffi 
cult  to  capture.  As  men  who  do  not 
smoke  sometimes  love  to  hold  an  un- 
lighted  cigar  between  their  teeth,  so 
Ezra  Spicer  of  a  Sunday  dropped  into 
the  water  a  hook  upon  which  he  hardly 
expected  a  fish  to  fasten  himself.  In 
this  way  he  felt  that  some  sort  of  treaty 
had  been  compounded  with  the  divine 
powers  supposed  to  be  hostile  to  Sun 
day  fishing.  He  had  chosen  "  Deni- 
son's  Hole"  this  day,  though  it  was 
Thursday,  for  its  location. 

Across  the  fields,  distinct  against  the 
green  of  the  little  square,  Ezra  watched 
the  church,  swarmed  over  by  gangs  of 
189 


Dorset 


workmen,  and  his  keen  eyes  took  stock 
as  well  of  the  figure  of  Major  Coopen 
rigid  and  uncompromising,  in  one  cor 
ner  of  his  family  pew.  The  fisherman 
chuckled  furtively.  "  Ol'  Maj.,"  he  said 
to  himself,  "  Ol'  Maj.  !  "  and  wagged 
his  head.  Presently  he  lifted  a  catfish 
upon  the  bank,  pricked  his  finger  while 
taking  it  from  the  hook,  and  indulged 
in  a  little  home-made  expletive.  He 
was  aware  of  no  scruple  regulating  the 
use  of  the  genuine  article  of  profanity, 
but  he  belonged  to  that  class  of  weak 
characters  who  swear  usually  only  upon 
parade,  and  in  the  presence  of  those  apt 
to  be  impressed  by  wholesale  breakage 
of  the  commandment.  By  himself  he 
used  phrases  in  accord  with  his  sur 
roundings,  woody  forest  expletives, 
raucous  and  vigorous  and  entailing 
technically  no  penalty. 

"  Crotch  all  hemlock,"  said  he,  put 

ting  his  thumb  to  his  mouth.     "  Slab- 

sided,  basswood  bullhead  ye  !     Like  ol' 

Major,"   he    added,    chuckling    again, 

190 


Cbc  last  of  tbe  OlD  Gburcb 


'mean  to  handle  when  he  's  mad,  an' 
hang  on  to  things  like  a  pup  to  a  root." 
Aphorisms  touching  the  mental  and 
physical  aspects  of  young  canines  in 
certain  emergencies  were  rife  in  Ezra's 
repertory.  "  Wai,  I  d'  know  as  I  kin 
blame  'im,"  he  continued,  "  town  aint 
nowhere  nigh  so  pious  as  't  was,  an'  yit 
they  must  have  a  new  meetin'-house." 
Then,  after  a  pause,  he  drew  his  line 
again  from  the  water,  wound  it  around 
the  pole,  picked  up  his  tin  pail  half 
rilled  with  catfish  and  chub  and  ram 
bled  slowly  along  the  bank.  "  Guess 
I  '11  go  over  an'  take  a  look  at  things, 
if  water  aint  too  deep  on  the  riffle,"  he 
muttered. 

It  was  an  easy  thing,  stepping  from 
stone  to  stone,  to  cross  the  Connedaga, 
dryfoot,  at  the  long  reach  of  swift 
water  below  the  Cooper  meadows,  and 
having  traversed  the  fields  Ezra  pres 
ently  found  himself  in  a  lane  at  the 
side  of  the  church.  The  clapboards,  by 
this  time,  were  partly  gone  from  its 
191 


Dorset 


walls,  and  the  old  man  peered,  with 
curiosity  mixed  with  awe,  into  the 
building.  Through  many  gaps  in  the 
roof  and  sides  the  sunlight  gazed  wan 
tonly  ;  light  used  for  several  generations 
to  enter  decorously  by  the  open  door 
or  through  the  great  square  windows. 

"  Hold  on  a  minute,  Ezry,"  shouted 
a  workman  from  the  roof,  "  we  '11  show 
ye  in  a  minute  what  th'  inside  of  a 
church  looks  like,  —  that  '11  be  a  kind  o' 
s'prize  fer  ye."  Several  others  ampli 
fied  this  sally,  but  it  had  no  effect  upon 
the  old  man.  Heedless  of  witticism 
he  pushed  his  way  among  the  idlers 
about  the  building,  passed  the  loitering 
boys  in  the  street  in  front,  and  finally 
stopped  before  the  white-haired  Major, 
who  still  glowered  from  the  corner  of 
his  pew.  For  a  time  neither  spoke  ; 
then  the  Major,  as  though  continuing  a 
conversation  already  some  time  under 
way,  said  : 

"  'T  aint  good  enough  for  'em  Ezry, 
't  aint  good  enough  for  "em." 
192 


Cbe  ILaat  of  tbc  ©ID  Gburcb 


"  Good  enough  for  me,"  he  went  on 
bitterly,  "  good  enough  for  my  father 
and  old  Parson  Knowles  an*  the  others 
up  there."  He  waved  his  cane  in 
the  direction  of  the  burying-ground, 
"Sit  down,  Ezry,"  he  added  with  a 
friendly  glance  at  the  other  ancient, 
"  my  pew  's  about  all  that  will  be  left 
pretty  soon  of  the  old  church.  Sit 
down,  let 's  do  a  little  preachin' — better 
sit  down,"  he  reiterated,  "  you  're  not 
in  very  good  standin',  you  know." 
Ezra  chuckled  softly,  laid  his  rod  and 
pail  by  the  side  of  the  old  oaken  seat, 
and  sat  gingerly  down. 

"  We  're  gettin'  old,  you  an'  me,"  he 
ventured,  terminating  a  long  pause. 
The  Major  started  from  a  reverie. 

"  What 's  that  ?  "  he  said. 

"  We  're  gettin'  old  you  an'  me,"  re 
peated  the  other. 

"  I  've  got  ten  years  older  since  morn- 

in',"   said    the    Major,  huskily.     "I'm 

losin'  part  of  my  memory,  right  there, 

with  those  old   beams.     I   never  went 

193 


<S>U>  Dorset 

inside  the  old  place  but  I  saw  corners, 
or  pews,  yes,  or  stains  on  the  walls 
to  make  me  laugh  at  what  they  brought 
up,  or  feel  like  cryin'.  Look  yonder  at 
that  spot  on  the  gallery  wall.  Know 
who  sat  there  ?  Cap'n  Riddle,  for  years 
out  o'  mind." 

Across  the  church,  upon  the  wall, 
plainly  visible,  in  the  light  pouring  into 
the  roofless  room,  was  a  blurred  dusky 
blotch.  It  was  there  that  the  town- 
crier,  who  was  also  a  blacksmith,  and  at 
times  performed  riotously  upon  a  bass 
drum,  rested  his  head  during  service — 
Captain  Riddle.  Captain  by  reason  of 
a  manner  that  suggested  freely  the 
pomp  and  circumstance  of  war.  Him 
had  the  village  genius  when  a  lad,  apos 
trophized  in  an  heroic  stanza  begin 
ning : 

"  Captain  Riddle,  son  of  Mars, 
Reared  amid  the  battle  smoke," 

and  ending  with  the  pertinent  query, 

"  Why,  oh  why,  from  over  eatin' 
Will  you  go  to  sleep  in  meetin'  ?" 
194 


Cbe  last  of  tbe  ©U>  Cburcb 


"  Wai,  Cap'n  's  gone,  too,"  said  Ezra, 
gloomily.  "  He  was  a  man  I  liked. 
Now,  Deacon  Stovey  I  never  could 
stand  ;  used  to  pass  plate,  an'  then  turn 
round  to  the  people  an'  drop  in  a  dollar 
— just  to  show  how  pious  and  generous 
he  was  ;  did  it  every  Sunday  for  years." 

"  Every  Sunday,  hay,"  said  the  Major 
enquiringly.  "  I  suppose  you  saw  him, 
Ezry?" 

Ezra  blushed.  "  Wai,"  he  said, "  he  did 
once,  for  I  seen  him,  an*  my  wife  she 
told  me  'bout  the  other  spells.  Tell 
ye  Major,"  he  added,  "  I  may  not  hev 
ben  quite  so  regular  as  you  was  to 
church,  but  I  seen  a  sight  there  one 
day  you  missed  ;  you  was  to  Albany,  I 
recklect.  You  see,  ol'  Scott,  Cap'n 
Weston's  dog,  got  tired  o'  listenin*  to 
sermon  that  day — some  new  man  from 
out  o'  town  was  preachin'.  Scott  was 
pretty  well  behaved  in  church,  but  they 
was  somethin'  he  did  n't  take  to  in  this 
new  preacher.  Wai,  you  remember  he 
gen'ly  slep'  close  to  the  pulpit  steps ; 
195 


©ID  Dorset 

he  got  up  'bout  half  through  sermon, 
looked  round  the  church  a  minute, 
then  gave  one  o'  them  long  yawns  a 
dog  will  give,  's  if  he  was  snappin'  at 
the  last  end  of  a  squeak.  You  know 
what  I  mean.  Wai,  Jimmy  Barton 
laughed  right  out,  allus  laughed  on 
half  a  chance,  that  boy,  an'  Deacon 
Stovey  comes  out  o'  his  pew  and  kicks 
poor  Scott  into  the  aisle.  Cap'n  Weston 
runs  out  and  ketches  hold  o'  Deacon. 
'  You  kickin*  my  dog,'  sez  he  to 
Deacon?  'Don't  you  see  I  be?'  sez 
Deacon.  '  Wai,  I  '11  do  my  own  dog- 
kickin"  sez  Cap'n,  'an'  I  '11  do  it  work 
days'  sez  he.  '  Now  they  's  some  men 
that's  mean  enough  fer  ye  to 
break  the  Sabbath  to  kick  'em." 
he  sez,  lookin'  Deacon  over.  Wai, 
Deacon  wa'  nt  no  match  fer  Cap'n,  an' 
he  went  an'  sat  down  ;  but  it  wa'nt  ten 
days  'fore  that  story  'bout  the  Weston's 
havin'  pie  for  breakfast  come  out  an' 
come  from  ol'  Mis'  Stovey  too." 

The   Major  was  laughing  heartily  as 
196 


ttbe  Xaat  of  tbe  <&U>  Cburcb 


Ezra  ceased  speaking — a  genial  rem 
iniscent  laugh.  For  a  time  he  forgot  the 
personal  and  present  grievance  of  the 
church's  destruction,  and  bringing  an 
old  smooth  worn  silver  box  from  his 
pocket,  helped  himself  and  handed  the 
box  to  Spicer. 

"  Well,  well,"  he  said  presently.  "  I 
remember  hearing  about  that  at  the 
time.  An'  the  pie  scandal !  Why  it 
bred  a  quarrel  that  lasted  years.  Were 
you  at  church  the  day  young  Par 
son  Hawley  from  South  Tiberius 
preached  ?  " 

Ezra  pondered  with  the  air  of  one  to 
whom  the  past  was  such  a  wilderness 
of  attendances  upon  divine  worship 
that  to  locate  one  particular  occasion 
was  a  work  of  hopeless  magnitude.  "  I 
think  mullets  was  runnin',  'bout  then," 
he  said  at  last  with  a  shy  chuckle. 

"  Well,"  said  the  Major,  "  you  know 

the  whole  story  of  course  as  well  as  I 

do,"    and  disregarding  the    fact    that 

Ezra  admitted  a  full  acquaintance  with 

197 


<§>!&  Dorset 

its  features  he  proceeded  to  detail  them 
with  much  exactness.  One  of  the 
notable  characteristics  of  the  good 
Major  was  his  infinite  zest  in  the  repe 
tition  of  anecdote.  The  more  thread 
bare  it  grew,  the  more  it  was  endeared 
to  him  ;  and  his  joyous  smile  at  the 
right  moment,  and  the  artless  way  in 
which  he  looked  around  his  audience 
for  appreciation,  disarmed  possible 
criticism. 

"You  see,"  he  began,  "Parson 
Knowles  was  filling  a  pulpit  for  a  Sun 
day,  down  Tioga  way,  somewhere,  an' 
Cap'n  Weston  got  young  Hawley 
from  South  Tiberius  to  come  over  to 
fill  the  vacancy.  Rather  a  bright  boy, 
young  Hawley — just  out  of  college,  an' 
knew  almost  half  as  much  as  he 
thought  he  did,  an'  that 's  sayin'  a  good 
deal.  He  was  pretty  often  up  to 
Weston's  and  people  said  it  was  a 
match  'tween  Eunice  Weston  an'  him. 
Well,  it  was  about  ten  months  after 
Mrs.  Deacon  Stovey  put  the  dictionary 
198 


Cbc  last  of  tbe  OlD  Cburcb 


on  a  stool  an'  the  stool  on  a  table  an* 
looked  through  her  window  across  an' 
through  the  Weston's — the  day  she  says 
she  saw  'em  have  pie  for  breakfast. 
Guess  that  story  was  a  fact.  Why, 
old  Cap'n  never  denied  it.  '  Major ' 
says  he,  when  the  story  came  out — '  I 
eat  pie  when  I  like,  an'  I  like — most 
every  chance  that  comes  my  way,'  says 
he  laughin'.  'T  was  Eunice  an'  Sally 
an'  Mrs.  Weston  made  the  noise. 
Well,  as  I  was  sayin,'  't  was  perhaps  ten 
months  after  the  pie  disclosure  an' 
everything  was  pretty  hot  yet.  Young 
Hawley  gave  out  as  his  text  that 
Sabbath  in  church,  that  verse  from 
Romans,  '  For  one  believeth  that  he 
may  eat  all  things,  another  who  is  weak 
eateth  herbs.' 

"  Well,  no  one  thought  anything 
'bout  that  bein'  a  specially  pat  text, 
until  young  Jimmy  Barton  turned 
round  to  John  Denison  just  back  of 
him,  an'  says  loud  enough  for  half  the 
church  to  hear,  '  an'  some  eat  pie  for 
199 


Dorset 


breakfast  !  '  Well,  't  want  any  use  —  the 
congregation  came  down,  an*  Cap'n 
Weston  laughed  too,  but  Mrs.  Weston 
an'  Sally  an'  Eunice.  Well  ! 

"  I  saw  Hawley  eatin'  Sunday  din 
ner  alone  that  day,  at  the  tavern,  an'  I 
reck'lect  seein'  Jimmy  an'  young  Joe 
Weston  rough-an'-tumblin',  next  day  in 
front  the  school-house.  Now  that  Jim 
my  was  a  takin'  boy  !  " 

"  He  was  so,  he  was  so,"  agreed  Ezra 
with  enthusiasm.  I  learnt  Jim  to  fish, 
him  an'  Homer  Silsbee,  —  an'  we  knew 
the  river  better  'n  some  folks  knows 
their  prayers.  Now  ol'  Judge  Bar 
ton  -  " 

"Old  Judge  Barton  was  a  leetlc  bit 
too  severe  with  Jimmy,"  resumed  the 
Major,  taking  the  conversation  again  in 
hand,  as  one  driving  takes  up  the  reins 
laid  down  a  moment.  "  He  was  proud 
of  the  boy,  but  he  did  n  't  quite  make 
him  out.  You  see  the  Judge  was  all 
New  England,  and  Mrs.  Barton  was 
half  Scotch.  There  was  the  Judge's 
200 


Gbe  last  of  tbe  ©ID  Gburcb 


pew  yonder,  where  they  're  rippin'  up 
the  floor.  Who  's  bossin'  that  job  ? 
Steve  Morgan,  hay  !  Why  look  at  that 
now — look  at  that !  He  never  came  to 
church  once  in  six  months,  that  fellow 
— never  belonged — wouldn  't  have  been 
tolerated — been  a  drunkard — beats  his 
wife — been  in  jail — an*  look  at  him 
there,  tearin'  up  the  floor  he  wasn't  fit 
to  walk  upon,  damn  him  !  " 

The  Major,  tremulous  with  rage,  had 
fallen  back  into  an  army  habit,  which 
he  discountenanced  in  others  and  usu 
ally  steered  clear  of  himself.  The  slip 
brought  him  to  a  pause,  and  he  turned 
with  a  deprecating  smile  towards  Ezra. 
He  observed  a  depressed  expression 
upon  the  latter's  face. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  "  a  man  can  take  a 
drink  once  in  a  while,  Ezry,  of  course, 
an'  no  great  harm — do  myself.  We  '11 
stop  at  the  '  Eagle  '  as  we  go  down 
town  ;  an'  not  attendin'  service  regu 
larly  's  no  crime,  but  you  see,  Steve 
Morgan,  that .  Well,  well,  I  '11  not 

201 


Dorset 


let  loose  again.  That  's  where  the 
Judge's  seat  was,  an'  Elder  Rhodes 
just  in  front.  You  remember  old 
Madam  Denison's  sister,  Miss  Cald- 
well  ?  Of  course  you  do.  She  wore 
more  hoop-skirt  than  any  woman  ever 
I  saw.  One  Sunday,  you  were  n't  there 
—  trout  risin'  I  believe  —  she  came  in 
late.  Elder  Rhodes's  tile-hat  was  just 
outside  his  pew  and  the  swirl  of  her 
skirts  just  hauled  it  right  in  like  a  cob  into 
the  feeder.  Out  jumps  Elder  an'  follows 
up  the  aisle,  duckin1  down  each  step  an* 
reachin'  for  his  hat.  But  he  never  got 
it  till  Miss  Caldwell  sat  down.  Oh, 
how  Johnny  Denison,  an'  Jim  Barton, 
an'  a  raft  of  young  ones  laughed.  So 
did  Mrs.  Barton,  but  the  Judge  never 
smiled.  You  know  he  had  a  square 
pew  with  a  table  in  it.  Jim  sat  next 
the  aisle  that  day,  then  his  three  sisters, 
then  the  Judge.  They  were  singin'  the 
second  hymn,  '  Duke  Street,'  I  think  it 
was,  an'  the  Judge  never  looked  up 
from  his  book.  He  located  Jim  by  in- 

203 


stinct,  an*  took  him  by  the  ear — then 
he  marched  him  north  along  one  side 
the  table,  west  along  the  front,  south 
along  the  other  side,  an'  sat  him  down 
'tween  Mrs.  Barton  an'  himself,  where 
Jim  would  be  more  convenient,  an' 
never  stopped  singin'  a  minute,  nor 
looked  up,  nor  smiled  !  By  the  lord 
Harry,"  laughed  the  Major,  overcome 
by  the  drollery  of  the  recollection  and 
his  own  humor  in  relating  it,  "  I  don't 
know  now  which  was  the  funnier  sight, 
Elder  Rhodes  rescuing  his  hat,  or 
Judge  Barton  suppressing  Jimmy !  " 

"Who  sat  back  of  the  Bartons, 
Major?  Oh,  yes,  the  Denisons,  then 
come  the  Callanders,  wa  'n't  it  ?  An' 
you  sat  where  ye  could  see  the  Callan 
ders." 

Ezra's  diffident  chuckle  met  no  re 
sponse  from  the  other.  Major  Cooper 
did  not  permit  even  acquaintances  from 
his  own  walk  in  life  to  jest  with  him  on 
certain  subjects,  and  Ezra  had  taken  a 
liberty,  as  he  himself  recognized.  He 
203 

r 


010  Dorset 

fumbled  with  his  fish-pole,  and  yawned 
several  times  elaborately,  testifying  em 
barrassment  in  much  the  manner  of  a 
dog  who  has  mingled  somewhat  in  hu 
man  society.  The  Major  leaned  back 
in  his  corner,  and  withdrew  into  himself, 
an  operation  beginning  with  the  retire 
ment  of  his  chin  almost  wholly  within 
his  copious  collar. 

"  Yes,"  he  said  presently,  with  vague 
stiffness  of  manner,  "  I  believe  I  could 
see  the  Callander  pew  from  where  I  sat." 

Not  only  could  the  Major  see  the 
family  pew  of  the  Callanders,  but  he 
did  see  it,  Sunday  after  Sunday,  year 
in  and  out.  It  held  what  was  more  to 
him  than  anything  else  in  the  little 
town,  where  his  "all"  was  to  be  found. 
He  used  to  gaze  across  the  church, 
openly  during  singing  or  sermon,  fur 
tively  in  prayer  time,  at  Mrs.  Colonel 
Callander — so  beautiful,  so  beyond  him, 
and  to  him  only  a  name — a  name  to  a 
romance  closed  and  laid  away  upon 
the  shelf  of  the  years.  When  at  last  she 
204 


cbc  Xast  of  tbe  <5>U>  Cburcb 


sat  there  no  longer;  when  her  long 
widowhood  was  ended,  and  she  was  laid 
beside  her  husband,  the  Major  still 
looked  every  Sunday  across  the  church 
to  the  empty  corner  in  the  Callander 
pew.  It  took  no  conjurer's  art  to  tenant 
it  again  for  him  as  of  old.  And  some 
times  he  would  suddenly  sit  straight  in 
his  seat,  adjust  his  collar,  tug  surrepti 
tiously  at  his  coat,  and  glance  quickly 
towards  the  other  aisle  of  the  church, 
as  if  in  very  truth  he  felt  the  eyes  of 
his  old  time  and  only  love  upon  him. 

The  snow  that  invaded  the  Major's 
hair,  never  touched  his  heart ;  there 
was  a  green  spot  there,  though  it 
marked  the  grave  of  his  one  passion. 

"  Wai,  Major,  its  'bout  noonin',''  sug 
gested  Ezra,  after  a  long  silence.  There 
was  no  reply. 

The   old  man    leaned    forward    and 

looked  curiously  at  the  Major.     He  was 

asleep.   The  heat  of  the  day,  the  sudden 

cessation  of  the  noise  about  him  at  the 

205 


Dorset 


noon  hour,  the  quiet  nature  of  his  re 
cent  thoughts,  all  played  a  part  in  the 
conspiracy  of  drowsiness.  Ezra  mut 
tered  discontentedly  and  looked  wist 
fully  down  the  road.  He  made  a  move 
ment  towards  awakening  his  old  friend 
but  checked  himself.  A  certain  irasci 
bility  attended  upon  Major  Cooper  at 
times  that  deserved  and  received  recog 
nition.  So  Ezra  rose  slowly,  yawned 
loudly,  stretched  himself,  clinked  his 
rod  noisily  against  the  fish-pail  and 
looked  again  at  the  sleeper.  The  Major 
slumbered  as  deeply  as  a  child.  With 
a  shake  of  his  head  Spicer  began  his 
homeward  walk,  with  now  and  then  an 
unrewarded  backward  glance  towards 
the  pew.  It  was  a  hot  day  and  the  air 
was  filled  with  dust.  When  Ezra  had 
reached  the  "  Eagle  "  tavern  his  natural 
aridity  was  trebled.  He  sat  down  for  a 
few  moments  upon  the  steps  of  the 
hostelry.  From  within  he  heard  a  pleas 
ant  clink  of  glasses,  and  sometimes  the 
rush  of  beer  from  the  spigot.  He 
206 


Cbc  Xast  of  tbe  OlD  Cburcb 


looked  up  the  road  to  where  the  Major 
still  dreamed  of  other  men  and  other 
days,  and  felt  a  keen  sense  of  depriva 
tion  and  wrong. 

"  He  asked  me  to,"  he  muttered,  re 
ferring  to  the  invitation  to  refreshment 
half  an  hour  before,  "  He  asked  me  to, 
an'  then  goes  to  sleep — 't  aint  right, 
that  's  what  't  aint." 

He  stooped,  picked  up  his  rod  and 
pail,  and  resumed  his  way.  At  the 
next  corner  he  met  Thome  Cooper,  the 
Major's  nephew. 

"Been  fishin',  Ezra?"  asked  Thome, 
pleasantly.  "  No,  be'n  chasin'  a  bee 
swarm,"  returned  the  old  man  sarcas 
tically,  pointing  to  his  tackle.  Thorne 
laughed.  "  Well,  I  allow  I  might  have 
known  by  what  you  're  carryin',"  he 
said,  and  passed  on. 

"  Be'n  to  church,  too,"  called  Ezra ; 
"sat  in  your  fam'ly  pew.  I'm  gettin* 
high  toned.  Say,  Thorne,  jest  wake  the 
Major  up,  will  ye  ?  I  'm  'fraid  he  '11 
catch  cold  sleepin'  in  the  shade. 
207 


"  There,"  he  chuckled  as  Cooper  went 
on  up  the  street,  "  I  '11  just  go  back  to 
the  '  Eagle  '  an  let  that  drink  ketch  up 
to  me.  Oh,  I  ain't  so  awful  slow." 

But  as  he  stopped  again  by  the  tavern 
door,  and  watched  the  figure  of  Thorne 
Cooper  nearing  the  old  oak  seat  under 
the  maple,  a  feeling  of  shame  came 
over  him.  He  had  been  the  Major's 
debtor  so  often  for  this  or  that ;  for 
meat  how  often,  and  how  very  often  for 
drink.  Let  the  old  man  sleep  his  sleep 
out! 

He  jumped  up  briskly,  for  his  seventy- 
odd  years,  and  trotted  up  the  road. 

"  Thorne — Thorne  !  "  he  cried. 

The  dust  was  thick,  and  his  voice  not 
over  strong. 

He  quickened  his  pace  towards  the 
square,  a  curious  feeling  possessing  him 
that  he  must  check  his  old  friend's 
awakening. 

"  Thorne,  Thorne  !  "  he  called  again, 
then  lessened  his  pace,  for  he  saw  that 
Cooper  was  at  the  Major's  side.  He 
208 


Cbe  Xast  of  tbe  ©to  Cburcb 


saw  him  stoop,  touch  the  old  man  upon 
the  arm,  then  shake  him  gently.  He 
was  near  enough  now  to  hear  his  loud 
exclamation  as  he  bent  his  head  tow 
ards  his  uncle's  face. 

Major  Cooper  did  not  waken.  He 
was  to  sleep  his  sleep  out,  despite  all 
earthly  interruptions.  The  over-exer 
tion  of  the  morning — his  struggle  with 
the  heavy  pew — and  the  heat  of  the 
day,  and  perhaps  one  of  those  sudden 
ailments  always  in  call  of  five  and  sev 
enty  years,  had  closed  the  old  man's 
eyes  forever. 

And  from  the  corner-seat  in  his  time- 
honored  pew,  in  sight  of  the  pulpit 
that,  uncovered  to  the  August  skies, 
and  strewn  with  the  litter  of  the  dis 
mantled  church,  had  still  a  certain 
mournful  dignity,  the  spirit  of  Major 
Cooper,  which  was  the  spirit  of  old 
Dorset,  went  into  another  Present. 

THE  END. 


209 


mill  o'  tbe  TKIlasp 

A  SEA  YARN  OF  THE  WAR  OF  1812 
By  ROBERT  CAMERON  ROGERS 

Edited  by  Henry  Lawrence,  U.  S.  N.,  and  now  brought 
before  the  public  for  the  first  time. 

With  frontispiece  by  R.  F.  Zogbaum,  and  decorative  cover 
design,  izmo,  $  1.25  

PRESS  NOTICES 

"  In  American^  history  there  are  no  exploits  recorded  that 
fire  the  imagination  and  stir  the  blood  as  do  those  of  the  naval 
heroes  of  the  War  of  1812  ;  and  among  these  are  none  that 
shine  more  brightly  or  are  invested  with  more  romantic  inter 
est  than  those  of  the  sloop  Wasp  in  the  summer  of  1814.  In 
'  Will  o"  the  Wasp,'  Mr.  Robert  Cameron  Rogers  has  taken 
the  audacious  career  of  this  sloop  in  the  English  Channel, 
and  her  mysterious  disappearance  in  the  midst  of  her  suc 
cesses,  as  the  motive  of  a  singularly  clever  and  powerful  tale. 
.  .  .  One  of  the  most  vigorous,  stirring,  and  realistic  sea- 
tales  we  have  read  in  many  a  year.  The  description  of  the 
memorable  duel  between  the  Wasp  and  the  Reindeer  is  par 
ticularly  brilliant.  .  .  .  Three  characters  in  this  success 
ful  venture  of  Mr.  Rogers  in  the  field  of  novel-writing,  we 
think  will  challenge  warm  praise  from  the  critics,  as  they 
must  interest  the  reader.  These  are  Fry,  old  Josh  Sewall,  and 
Nancy  Barker,  a  Plymouth  lass  captured  on  a  merchantman, 
who  falls  in  love  with  the  modest  Fry  and  furnishes  the  bal 
last  in  the  shape  of  a  breezy  courtship  and  love  passages  de 
sirable  in  every  novel.  These  characters  are  real  flesh  and 
blood.  They  are  alive." — Buffalo  Commercial, 

"  Mr.  Rogers's  story  has  the  genuine  salty  flavor  of  the  sea. 
It  is  an  entertaining  yarn  that  he  has  spun.  The  adventures 
of  Captain  Blakely's  stanch  little  sloop-of-war  Wasp  along 
the  British  coast  are  enough  of  themselves  to  hold  the  read 
er's  attention,  but  the  interest  of  the  tale  is  enhanced  by  the 
pretty  love  story  that  runs  through  it.  .  _ .  .  The  story  ac 
quires  added  attractiveness  frombeing  written  in  the  first  per 
son,  as  from  the  diary  of  an  old  sea-dog." — N.  Y.  Sun. 

"  It  is  a  most  interesting  narrative,  and  the  spice  of  life — 
love — with  which  it  is  dashed  here  and  there  is  ^just  sufficient 
to  keep  the  reader  on  the  alert.  The  portrait  it  draws  of 
Captain  Blakely  is  generous  in  its  proportions  of  patriotism 
and  daring ;  and  the  gentleness  of  demeanor  which  it  gives  as 
his  chief  characteristic  was  in  keeping  with  the  feeling  which 
animated  the  leaders  of  the  Revolution,  then  so  fresh  a  mem 
ory.  To  peruse  such  a  book  is  a  rare  pleasure  indeed." — 
Rochester  Herald. 

"  It  is  an  extremely  spirited  and  carefully  written  narra 
tive." — N.  Y.  Evening  Post. 

G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS,  NEW  YORK  AND  LONDON 


tlbe  Win&  in  tbe  Clearing 

AND  OTHER  POEMS 

BY 

ROBERT    CAMERON    ROGERS 

Second  Edition,  12°,  $1.25 
PRESS  NOTICES 


"  Other  young  poets  might  have  written,  each  in  his  own 
way,  no  doubt,  'The  Wind  in  the  Clearing,'  the  concep 
tion  of  which  has  not  been  fairly  mastered  by  Mr.  Rogers ; 
but  no  other  young  poet,  certainly  none  of  American 
growth,  could  have  written  some  of  the  classical  poems 
which  follow,  and  which  are  valuable  additions  to  our 
scanty  store  of  genuine  and  noble  classical  verse.  .  . 
He  has  something  to  learn,  and  will  learn  it,  no  doubt, 
through  future  practice  ;  but  he  has  not  much  to  unlearn, 
for  he  is  not  mannered  in  his  diction,  which  is  easy  and 
picturesque,  and  in  his  choice  of  subjects  he  shows  the  in 
stinct  of  a  true  poet." — RICHARD  HENRY  STODDARD,  in 
New  York  Mail  and  Express. 

"  There  is  always  running  through  the  book  a  vein  of 
feeling  so  exalted,  and  so  well  kept  in  hand  by  the  shap 
ing  control  of  an  artist,  that  the  work  will  be  read  with  in 
terest  by  every  lover  of  poetry." — The  Scotsman,  Edin 
burgh. 

"  It  is  most  encouraging  that  several  volumes  of  poetry 
showing  definite  promise  for  the  future  have  recently  been 
published  by  young,  untried  poets  in  this  country,  where 
the  outlook  in  poetry  has  been  of  late  years  very  disheart 
ening.  Among  these  younger  men  none  has  shown  brighter 
promise  nor  better  achievement  than  Mr.  Robert  Cameron 
Rogers." — Literary  World. 

"Exquisite,  in  the  good  sense  of  the  word,  some  of  his 
poems  are,  and,  while  others  are  less  perfect,  all  are  ani 
mated  by  a  deep  and  manly  sentiment  making  pure  joy  in 
the  mind.  .  .  .  When  his  motive  is  Greek,  his  verse 
is,  contrary  to  the  usual  order,  most  natural,  most  spontane 
ous,  and  most  personal.  He  does  not  translate,  he  lives  in 
'Blind  Polyphemus,'  'Odysseus  at  the  Mast,'  and  'The 
Death  of  Argus.'  His  thought  is  at  once  the  Greek  idea 
and  his  own  conception." — N.  Y.  Times. 


G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS,  NEW  YORK  &  LONDON 


Date  Due 


PRINTED   IN    U.S. t 


CAT.   NO.   24    161 


